When Doves Cry
by ChainOfPaperclips
Summary: She loved him as an adolescent, he admired her from afar; each thought their difference in station an insurmountable obstacle. Years later, Princess Emma and Lt. Killian Jones enter into a marriage of convenience, having long ago given up on obtaining the other's love. Can they overcome tragedy and re-discover each other again? Rated M for sex, mature themes, triggers.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This fic is for msgenevieve447, for my Captain Swan Secret Shipmates gift. It's maybe not quite what you had in mind, dear, nor I, but I hope you it enjoy it just the same. I've enjoyed writing it so far.**

**This was supposed to be a oneshot Lieutenant Duckling fic, but it took a somewhat darker turn at the beginning, and I knew I could never do this fic, or the themes associated, justice with a oneshot, so I turned it into a multichapter. **

**I consider this to be a Lieutenant Duckling fic with a spritz of Captain Swan, meaning that while this story will firmly remain LD, it has a definite flavor of Captain Swan mixed into it-in part because of its darker themes, and also because it's my headcanon that even as Lieutenant Jones, Killian had a flirtatious and snarky sort of personality...it was just less pronounced.**

**Anyhoo...the first few chapters shouldn't be too bad. I'm mostly hinting at what's going on, but I will post warnings in later chapters if I think something might be a potential problem for readers, so they can skip over it or abandon ship. ;) Hope you enjoy this fic!**

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It took all of the discipline learned in Lieutenant Killian Jones's naval training not to pace back and forth. Such a display would be gauche, extremely bad form. But his nerves had to have _some_ outlet, so he reached up to tug at the starched collar of his best naval uniform. Sometime in the last several minutes, it had become hot in the cathedral. Extremely hot. Never mind that it was the middle of December...

"Stop that," his older brother hissed over Killian's shoulder. "Everything's fine. It's just a small delay."

Killian suppressed a snort. Small delay? He wasn't a fool. Under the circumstances, that "small delay" could mean anything-and none of it good. Had Emma decided to back out? Her parents...well, everyone, really...would understand if she did. Killian knew the monarchs underestimated how beloved Princess Emma was by her people. If she chose not to marry Killian, a mere naval officer with no wealth or title, everyone would understand. Even _he_ would understand (though it would make things awkward for himself and his career for some time to come). She was a _princess_. It wasn't as if she owed him anything after all. Certainly not her hand in marriage, if she'd changed her mind.

Liam poked him in the side. "Smile," he insisted. "You look like you're attending a state funeral, for gods' sakes!"

Funeral? Killian snorted softly, which earned him a disapproving frown from his curly-haired brother (though Killian noted that his disapproval didn't quite meet his eyes). Well, perhaps that analogy wasn't so far from the truth in some respects. Certainly the event would better resemble one when word came for Killian that the princess had called the whole thing off.

Liam poked him again.

"Stop that!" Killian hissed testily. "I thought groomsmen were supposed to be supportive, not irritating."

"Oh? So you'd rather not know the doors have opened, and your bride is ready?" Liam said archly. "Guess you'll have to find yourself a new best man, if I irritate you with such news."

Killian's head jerked up, and he risked a glance toward the back of the cathedral-protocol and good form be damned. Sure enough, the doors to the vestibule of the cathedral had been propped wide open. Emma was nowhere in sight, of course; no doubt she was tucked off to the side somewhere, hidden from his view until she walked down the aisle. Two small girls with wavy dark hair, wearing dresses that could perhaps be called pink if he squinted, but more resembled the hue of champagne, stood at the ready, baskets clutched in their hands. Killian tried to remember their names (they were about to be related, after all), but they escaped him. All he really knew was that they were cousins of some sort.

Behind the girls, he saw the red hair and infectious smile of the first in a string of bridesmaids. From what little he recalled of the meetings in which they had planned his and Emma's wedding, there were six of them. Seven, if you counted Emma's maiden of honor. Most of them were princesses from allied kingdoms, he remembered, chosen out of courtesy as much as the necessity of witness. But Emma's maiden of honor, at least, was truly her friend, and for that he was glad.

The music began, and Killian drew himself up to his full height, resuming the bearing proper to a military officer. Emma's smallest attendants walked down the aisle, strewing wildflowers in their wake. Their guests smiled and murmured, completely captivated by this display, and even Killian had to admit to himself that they were adorable.

The bridesmaids followed next, one by one, until only Alice remained, her wide smile aimed right at Killian. She winked at him once as she passed by, turning to take her place on the altar steps. Killian blinked, glancing around nervously. What was she on about?

The music changed before he had time to examine the oddity further, and Killian turned toward the back of the cathedral, his mouth dry. Emma stood for a moment, framed by the arched doorway, to allow their guests to look their fill upon her. Killian didn't mind. It allowed him the same opportunity.

Her gown's skirt was full, the very whiteness of it emphasized by the glittering array of rubies and emeralds that adorned it. Gold embroidery criss-crossed the fitted bodice that allowed Killian a peek, no more than that, of his bride's bosom. He felt his ears begin to burn, and he shifted his gaze to admire the long, flowing sleeves of the gown instead; he felt embarrassed and a bit ashamed to stare at the princess in such a common fashion.

Emma started her journey up the long cathedral aisle, and Killian reached up to tug his collar again, quite forgetting himself for a moment. Her steps were measured, her movements graceful, and Killian felt as if he were in a dream as she swept up the aisle toward him. Her golden hair was piled atop her head, loose ringlets falling onto her neck and shoulders underneath the filmy, jewel-covered veil. Long, graceful fingers cradled a bouquet of pink and white roses, a combination he was certain had been chosen by her mother. Emma's taste had _never_ run to dainty colors, much less pink. Red was more her style, or black. But they weren't exactly common wedding colors. Certainly not ones of which Queen Snow ever would have approved.

The princess paused at the end of the aisle, turning toward Killian. He inhaled deeply. With trembling fingers, he folded back her veil and looked at his bride. Her expression was demure, but there was a familiar fire in her green eyes. He smiled at that. Same old Emma. Killian offered the princess his arm. She accepted it without expression, and they approached the altar together.

He stole a glance at her as they knelt before the priest on the altar steps. Though her eyes were focused on the priest, her attention supposedly captivated by his words, Killian knew better. Years of attending state meetings with her had taught him what it felt like when her attention wandered. What was she thinking of? Killian turned his gaze back to priest, giving Emma's hand a light squeeze. He promised himself that he would do everything in his power to make her happy, to give her a happy ending.

She deserved no less.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma waited in the spacious bridal chamber, fidgeting as she sat on the bed waiting for her groom to arrive. The maids had vacated the room some time ago, their preparations to Emma's hair and attire finished. Bereft of familiar company, Emma paced the room at first, but that had only tempted her to climb out of the window. A foolish notion, both since it was several stories to even reach the ground, and she'd likely break her neck and die, and also because she would hate to repay Lieutenant Jones's kindness with the embarrassment of a scandal. For that much she did know about the Lieutenant: he was kind. And loyal. She had noticed it years ago, when she had been but a girl of fourteen, and the much older navy officer and his brother had attended their first meeting with her parents. Courteous and respectful, Lieutenant Jones had treated even the servants as his equals, not disdaining eye contact with them, or gratitude for their services. It was something she had only ever observed in her parents. But even more than that, he'd been kind to _her_. For the first time in her life, Emma hadn't been invisible or seen as an appendage to her parents. She'd been treated as a person in her own right.

She'd fallen a little in love with him after that. Hadn't been able to help it. But she'd known, always known, that she couldn't have him. Princesses just didn't marry naval officers, and that was that.

Plus, he'd never noticed her in the way she wanted, anyway.

But at twenty-one, the same age Lieutenant Jones had been when she met him, Emma knew that dreams didn't often come true for people, no matter what her idealistic parents tried to impress upon her. Not everyone attained True Love as they, or Aunt Ruby, had. Sometimes dreams changed. Sometimes the people you loved betrayed you in the worst possible way. And sometimes life had a twisted enough sense of humor to give you exactly what you had wished for, for years...exactly when you no longer wanted it.

The door to the chamber opened, and Emma leapt to her feet, nerves finally getting the better of her after such a long day. Lieutenant Jones poked his head through the doorway, peering around uncertainly. "Princess," he greeted her when their gazes met. "Permission to enter?"

She laughed. It was a strange feeling, considering the gravity of their situation. But for the moment, it helped. "You're the groom," she pointed out with a smile. "I hardly think you need permission to enter your own bridal suite."

He grinned at her, his features all the more devastating in their handsomeness for it. Emma swallowed thickly, every inch the lovesick fourteen year old for one brief moment. Lieutenant Jones entered the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. She blinked, coming back to her senses.

"Sorry," he apologized, "old habits die hard. Years of training and all that."

She nodded. "Understandable," she replied, feeling awkward under his gaze. What a sight she must present, Emma thought as blue eyes studied her. She wondered now if she should have listened to the urgings of her maids and done something more with her hair, worn a fancier nightgown. Emma hadn't wanted to pretend this was something more than it was; hadn't wanted to risk getting caught up in a fantasy that would only shatter under the harsh, cold light of reality. So, she'd insisted her maids plait her hair as usual, and forced them to fetch one of her many plain white nightgowns from her old rooms.

But she realized, absorbing the regretful look on Lieutenant Jones's face, perhaps she should have taken her new husband's feelings into consideration. Certainly he deserved one night of fantasy, at least. One night when they upheld the pretense that this was a normal wedding night between lovers that actually wanted each other. Tomorrow they would begin their honeymoon proper. Emma didn't have it in her to pretend for three whole weeks, but perhaps just for tonight she could gather the courage, set aside her own problems, and just give herself to her husband. It was selfish not to, wasn't it? And didn't he have the right to demand it anyway, as her spouse? To take her whether it pleased her or not?

Emma went cold at the thought. She sat down on the edge of the bed again.

"Something troubling you, Princess?"

Emma looked up. Blue eyes watched her with concern. He wouldn't do it. He was kind, she reminded herself. Wasn't he? She had never known him, not really. And a young girl's crush covered many sins and defects, if she refused to see them. Lieutenant Jones could be anyone. Might be anything.

"Something is troubling you," he concluded with a frown. He walked over and sat down beside her on the bed. Emma flinched at his nearness. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she forced herself to breathe evenly to calm her heartbeat. The Lieutenant edged away, putting more space between them. Clearly, he'd noticed her reaction.

"Care to unburden yourself?" he asked, after sitting in silence beside her for a time.

She didn't, not really. Even if his kindness wasn't a facade, Emma couldn't bring herself to open up to him. He was practically a stranger to her, fourteen-year-old fantasies be damned. And she had learned the hard way what a mistake it was to open up to people. It wasn't a lesson she was willing to repeat. Letting anyone in, even, no, _especially_ her husband, was out of the question.

"I'm fine."

"You're not," he snorted. "You're afraid to talk, to reveal yourself. To trust me."

"Oh, so after being married to me for the space of what, ten hours, you think you know me?" she replied caustically.

"No," he said without a hint of rancor, "but I've observed you for seven years, serving my queen. You're something of an open book."

"Am I?"

"To one who knows how to properly translate, yes."

"And you think that's you?" she said skeptically. "Please. Neither of us know one damned real thing about each other."

His expression became closed off. "As you say, Your Highness," he said in a much more distant tone. He stood up, making his way over to the bottle of wine the servants had set out. He poured a glass of the ruby liquid and took a long drink from it.

"Don't call me that," she bit out angrily. He glanced at her over his wine glass, eyebrow arched. "See?" she couldn't help but gloat, "if you knew anything about me at all, you would know that I hate being "your highness"-ed and "princess"-ed all the time."

He smiled, but there was little warmth in it. "Oh, but I'm quite aware of that, actually. As I said, love, open book." He lifted his glass to her in sarcastic tribute, took another drink, and wandered out onto the balcony.

Irritated, Emma followed him.

The evening was still and quiet, bereft of the noise from insects long since dead or driven away for the colder months. Stars shone across the sky like pearls scattered across fine, navy satin. Emma might have appreciated the sight on some other night, there were too many things detracting her full attention from them. Such as the man leaning against the balcony in front of her. The tail of his queued hair blew in the breeze that rippled across the balcony. He'd shucked his blue, formal jacket off, tossing it over the back of a chair. It made the ripple of his shoulder muscles much more apparent as he shifted restlessly.

"Sure you should be out in this chill air?" he asked without so much as turning to glance toward her when she walked out onto the balcony.

"I'm fine," she said dismissively. "It's stuffy inside, anyway."

He did turn toward her then, giving her an incredulous look. "It's the middle of December!"

"Really, I'm fine," she assured him.

He rolled his eyes. It was a mannerism that surprised her. It seemed very unlike the stiff, proper officer she was familiar with. Then again, as she'd pointed out to him, they hardly knew each other.

Warmth enveloped her as he settled his abandoned jacket around her shoulders. "If you insist on being stubborn," he murmured before turning away.

Emma's temper died a bit. She shuffled over to join him where he stood, leaning with one hip against the balcony. He arched a brow at her, but made no move to shift aside so she had more room. Emma ground her teeth together. She had no choice but to stand uncomfortably close to him.

He smirked at her over his wine glass, as if he read could her thoughts every bit as well as he'd claimed. Emma glared at him in return. The silence stretched between them for several moments, and Emma thought the terribly proper military officer would be welcome over _this_ smug bastard.

"Are you thirsty? Hungry?" he asked suddenly. "I could send for something."

"A little hungry," she admitted, embarrassed. She couldn't remember when she had eaten last. Sometime during the long reception, but even if it had been right before her early leave (and it hadn't), that would have been hours ago.

He frowned. "You shouldn't starve yourself, love," he said quietly.

"Don't call me that," she snapped. Emma couldn't stand it. To hear that word fall from his lips tonight, of all nights, as if it _meant_ something-

"Force of habit," he told her stiffly, the proper military officer returning. "My apologies." He downed the last of his wine. "I'll send for food. Anything particular you desire?"

"Just call me Emma, all right?" she told him as he turned away to leave the balcony.

He peered at her over his shoulder. "I meant the food."

"I know."

He stared at her for a moment, his face expressionless, then disappeared into the bridal suite. Emma sighed. She was making a terrible mess of things. The on-and-off-again friction wasn't at all what she had pictured on her wedding night as a young girl. At least not the antagonistic sort of friction, she admitted to herself wryly. But Emma wasn't certain she could give Lieutenant Jones the type of wedding night she'd always imagined. The sort he had no doubt anticipated.

Emma sighed again and exited the balcony, determined to salvage the evening and at least make peace with her new husband. Her problems weren't his fault. He shouldn't have to bear the brunt of her confused emotions.

"I took the liberty of requesting a variety of foods," he informed her when she entered the room again, "since I didn't know what you wanted."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." She started to sit down on the bed, then remembered that she still wore his jacket. Emma removed it, folding it neatly so it wouldn't wrinkle. She held it out to him. He shook his head, waving it away. Emma placed it on top of a dressing table.

"You know," he said, loosening his cravat, "if I'm to call you Emma, you might try using my given name, too."

She felt herself flush. Emma had wanted to do nothing more than that for practically six years. She used to fantasize about it. Usually in tandem with her wedding night. But she'd abandoned those fantasies with the last remnants of her childhood, and then, about a year ago, when Neal had come along, fantasies of the unattainable Lieutenant Jones had been replaced by the handsome heir to Count Goldberg. Her parents might consider a match between them, despite his lower rank. And he, unlike the Lieutenant, returned her affection.

What a fool she'd been.

"It feels strange," she told him, "to think of calling you that." _Lie_, her conscience screamed at her. _Lie, lie, lie!_

"It'll take some getting used to, I grant you," he agreed, removing his vest. Emma watched in horrified fascination. "But we should make an effort, shouldn't we? We are wed now."

"We?" she echoed. He looked up, his expression confused. "You said 'we'." Her eyes narrowed. "That's why you keep calling me 'princess' and 'your highness'," she realized. "It's habit for you, too."

"Aye," he admitted. "But the last time, I simply did it to annoy you."

"Figures," she snorted. He looked at her in amusement. "Look, I'll...try to remember to call you by your given name if you try to call me by mine."

He smiled. "Do you even know my given name?" he asked curiously. "I've yet to hear you say it. I'm beginning to doubt it."

"Of course I know it," she huffed. "I sat through enough boring meetings with you, didn't I? I saw your signature loads of times. And they announced you at all the balls, anyway. I'd have to be blind and deaf not to know it by now."

"Then say it," he challenged. "Straight from those beautiful, royal lips."

Emma rolled her eyes. This idiot switched personalities faster than lightning, it seemed. "Killian," she muttered.

"Oh, well don't sound so thrilled about it, love," he chuckled.

"What happened to 'Emma'?" she demanded, wincing inwardly at his use of the endearment again.

"Sorry. Emma," he corrected. "I'll be honest with you, Emma. Titles I can eliminate, but certain patterns speech, such as the one I just used, are not going to go away."

So it was ingrained, she reflected. Which meant that it was impersonal. She could live with that. So long as he wasn't actually mocking her or using it as a genuine term of affection.

"All right," she said, "I guess I understand that. I don't want to change who you are."

"Say that to me again after we've been married six or seven years," he teased as a knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a servant bearing two large silver trays entered the room, very carefully avoiding looking at Emma. Killian took the trays, setting them on top of desk. He thanked the servant and sent him on his way again.

Lieutenant Jones-_Killian_, she reminded herself-lifted the lid off one of the trays, revealing a mouth-watering variety of fruits and cheeses. The other tray turned out to hold bread, ham, and honey. "It's not fancy," he apologized, "but-"

"No, it's fine. I don't want the staff going to any trouble this late in the evening."

He nodded. "Just so."

Emma ambled over to the trays and picked up one of the small plates included with the food. She offered it to the Lieutenant. _Killian_. "Join me?" she invited. He looked at her in surprise. "Don't tell me _you've_ eaten recently, either."

"I haven't," he admitted.

"So?" She waved the plate at him with one hand, jamming a hunk of cheese in her mouth with the other. "You want to eat or what?" she asked, swallowing.

He accepted the plate with a slight smile. "Elegant as always, I see."

"I do so try," she curtsied flippantly.

He grinned, stepping up beside her. "Well, you needn't pretend around me. I know better."

"Do you?" Emma loaded the little plate with food, trying to distract herself from the very masculine presence beside her.

"I do," he affirmed, filling his own plate. "And I much prefer it when you don't." Emma stared at him in surprise. "What? I take it I'm not allowed to compliment my wife now, either?" he asked with a somewhat irritated expression.

"No. I'm...it's just...no one has ever said anything like that to me before."

His expression softened. "What a shame." He moved away before Emma could decide if he was being genuine or not.

They ate in silence, both of them sneaking glances at the other when they thought their companion wasn't looking. Neither of them quite knew how to broach the subject that weighed so heavily on their minds, so they each stewed about it, each worried about how the other might respond when they turned in for the night and confronting it became inevitable.

Emma, for her part, vacillated between putting it off indefinitely, and just getting it over with. She was as equally terrified that she would welcome his attentions, enjoy them far too much, as she was that she would push him away and damage their already fragile relationship further. The reality of her situation was sinking in, and Emma acknowledged to herself that, for good or for ill, she had to live with this man forever. She would much rather be on good terms with him, but that didn't necessarily mean a sexual relationship, did it? Loads of couples in arranged marriages went their own ways after they married, maintaining nothing more than a friendship or passing acquaintance with each other. If that.

On the other hand, they also consummated their marriage and maybe produced an heir or two, first.

Killian took her plate when she'd eaten her fill, stacking them on the empty tray. Between the two of them, all the fruit and cheese had been eaten, leaving only a little of the bread. Emma sipped at a glass of water while Killian moved the trays to the hallway for a servant to retrieve later. She still wasn't certain what she would do or how she would respond when Killian initiated. She was running out of time; it was getting later by the minute, and they needed to get _some_ rest for their trip tomorrow.

Ostensibly, anyway.

Killian shut the door behind him and started across the room, unbuttoning his shirt, a faraway look in his eyes. Emma choked on the water she was swallowing. He looked at her with a puzzled expression for about half a breath before realization dawned in his eyes. "I can change in the next room, if you prefer," he offered quietly. "Though it's a bit redundant now that we're married, don't you think?"

"I-I guess," she stammered. Then, hating how idiotic she sounded, "I mean, you have a point."

"Good." He smiled at her crookedly and finished unbuttoning his shirt. He shucked it off, and Emma thought she might have heard him mutter, "That's something, anyway," but she was entirely too distracted by the sight of his bare chest to pay much attention. Gods above, the man was pure muscle, she realized, feeling her face heat up. He didn't look to have a single ounce of fat on him! And the chest hair, gods, the chest hair!

His muscles corded and bunched as he sat down in a chair at the dressing table and neatly folded his shirt. He laid it aside and started to remove his boots. Seeming to sense her hungry gaze, he looked up. Emma glanced away quickly, embarrassed and more confused than ever.

He said nothing, for which Emma was profoundly grateful, but merely continued his bedtime preparations. A queasy feeling started in the pit of her stomach. Emma clamped her mouth shut and closed her eyes, willing it to go away.

She felt a light touch on her shoulder a few minutes later. She jumped, opening her eyes. Killian towered over her with nothing on but a pair of loose, black trousers woven from a much softer material than the ones she usually saw him wear. Emma blinked stupidly. She hadn't witnessed the switch from one pair of trousers to the other, thank the gods. "You look pale," he said. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing," she replied. "The food didn't sit well in my stomach, that's all."

He frowned. "My apologies." He watched her with concern. "Perhaps I should let you make the requests in the future."

"It's fine, really," she assured him. "I'm better now. It's just been a long day. Let's go to bed."

The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. Flushing to the roots of her hair, she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. To her surprise, his face was also a little flushed, but his cobalt eyes were filled with compassion. He sat down on the bed next to her. "Emma-" he reached over as if to take her hand, then withdrew as if he'd thought better of it. "We'll just sleep tonight, love. As you said, it's been a long day."

Her mouth fell open a little. "But...I thought...We're married, aren't we?" she floundered. "I thought husbands expected- I mean, you're a man, aren't you?" she finished, her words sounding harsh, though she hadn't meant for them to.

He winced."If you're asking whether I want a physical component to our marriage, Emma, yes. As you pointed out, I'm a man, and men often tend to want that. But," he said with a little more force, "not all men are willing to take something that isn't freely given."

"You're my husband now. You have rights over my body, as I have over yours. In wedding you, by law, I've already given my free consent. You would only be taking what was rightfully yours."

He gave her a hard look. "I will not take that which isn't freely given, Emma," he told her firmly. "Even as your husband."

"I don't understand," she confessed. "Don't you want to?"

"We've already established that I have desires, being a male with a pulse," he deflected with an attempt at humor. "The better question is what you want."

"I...I don't know."

"Then you're not ready," he said matter-of-factly. "I assumed as much."

"What-what if I never am?" she whispered, voicing her greatest fear. The moment she did, she felt humiliated. She hadn't meant to share anything with him, least of all _that_. But there was something very relaxing about his presence. Comfortable. _Too_ comfortable, she decided, because she felt safe with him. Vulnerable. Emma didn't let herself be vulnerable with anyone. Not anymore.

"Then I suppose I shall have to take up meditation," he winked, offering her a crooked smile. "Not to worry, lass. Sailors can go a long time without."

"Maybe," she said skeptically, "but a whole lifetime?"

His smile faltered. "You don't make this easy, do you, lass?"

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing. We'll figure this out, Emma. Just not tonight."

"Okay. Sorry."

"_Emma_."

She opened her mouth to apologize, then snapped it shut. "Fine." He smirked at her.

"Let's retire then, shall we, love? You need your rest." He stood up, reaching for one of the pillows.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, the floor is rather uncomfortable without it, love."

"You don't have to sleep on the floor."

He eyed her skeptically. "Emma, you flinch or move away every time I so much as sit by you. I rather assumed sharing a bed would be rushing it a bit."

"Sorry," she blurted out miserably. "I-I can't help it."

"Emma! Stop. Apologizing. You've done nothing wrong."

"All right." She swallowed. "I'm sor- I mean...you're right, we should get some sleep."

He nodded shortly, gathering up another pillow.

"Killian?"

"Hmm?"

"You really don't have to sleep on the floor. I'll feel bad if you do."

He quirked a smile at her. "In that case, we'll give it a go, if it'll ease your conscience. Can't have you awake all night. You really do need some rest. We have a long journey tomorrow."

Emma folded back the covers and didn't respond. Killian took his cue from her and made a circuit around the room while Emma settled into the bed, blowing out the lamps. He padded back toward the bed, pausing briefly to blow out the bedside lamp. The room plummeted into darkness. The bed creaked slightly, dipping momentarily as he climbed in. Emma tensed up, breathing hard. Killian maintained a respectful distance, however, and after a few minutes she began to relax.

"You all right?" he asked softly.

"I will be," she managed. "I'm...it's better than it was a few minutes ago."

"But you'll tell me if you're not?"

"Yes." She doubted she would be able to help it.

"Promise?"

She expelled a breath. "Yes. I promise."

"Good night, then, Emma," he replied after a short silence. "Sleep well, love."

But Emma didn't sleep. Not at all. Not until long after Killian had stilled and his breathing became deep and even. Only then did she fully relax and let herself fall into a deep and much-needed sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

If there was one thing that a long carriage ride was good for, Killian thought, gazing out of the window at the drab, winter countryside that rolled past, it was thinking. And he certainly had a lot to think over, after last night. His first night wedded to Emma had both gone exactly and yet quite unlike his expectations. They had taken so many steps forward, then lurched back quite a few more, then edged forward again... It felt a whole lot like their marital relationship so far was of those children's toys with the string that they flung up and down and swung back and forth. But even as tumultuous as it was, it was better than he had hoped for and expected at the beginning. That Emma could even manage moments of lightheartedness with him, much less sleep in the same bed with him so soon after they had wed, was proof of her strength, her resilience.

Killian looked at the seat opposite of him, eyeing his sleeping wife thoughtfully. Blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in a messy tangle, an appealing contrast to the long-sleeved, high-necked teal-blue gown she wore. She'd refused to wear her hair up today as a proper lady should, even going so far as to fight with her maid about it. Killian, though he was uncertain what the fuss was all about, had listened for a few minutes and then intervened on Emma's behalf. They were going to spend the majority of the day in the carriage, he'd argued, what was the difference how her hair was coiffed? It was easy enough to throw a cloak on and pull up the hood when they stopped to eat or rest the horses. The maid acquiesced, and Emma had beamed at him in gratitude after the servant left, a sight that took his breath away.

It had been his sole victory of the morning.

Emma had immediately withdrawn from him the moment they entered the carriage. That had disappointed Killian at first, but after thinking about it, he'd realized that the closeness of their quarters probably made her uncomfortable. Especially since there was no easy means of escaping his presence unless she wanted a broken limb, or worse. Killian had attempted conversation in the beginning, but his words were met with a cold stare, and eventually he lapsed back into silence.

He'd known this was going to be difficult. Killian hadn't entered the marriage with any illusions; it was every inch a marriage of convenience. And though he wanted to make the best of things, to give her a happiness and peace she didn't seem to believe was possible, much less deserved, the friendship he'd thought possible to develop between them last night was like ashes in his mouth today. Killian tried not to feel disappointed. Emma wouldn't be won in a day, or even a few weeks. It might be years before he won her trust and her friendship, much less anything else.

Emma shifted in her sleep, her mouth drooping open. Killian smiled fondly, amused at the sight. At least her stubborn silence had allowed her to get more rest. The dark circles under her eyes this morning had told the tale of her wakefulness last night, and he wondered just how long she had lain awake after he had fallen asleep. Would she sleep better if he insisted on separate arrangements tonight? Perhaps a different chamber? It wasn't at all uncommon for wedded nobles to have a separate set of apartments from each other. Eric and his wife, Ariel, would hardly bat an eyelash if he made such a request when they arrived. But would Emma agree to it? He knew she could be uncommonly stubborn when it suited her ("Pigheaded," her mother had often accused with a huff. "She gets it from you, you know," her father always replied with a smile). If she was determined to share a bed, there would be little he could to talk her out of it, even if it negatively affected her sleep.

A snorting sound interrupted his thoughts, drawing his attention to his slumbering wife again. Emma scrubbed at her face with one hand, but her eyes remained firmly closed. Killian grinned. He shouldn't take such pleasure in observing her sleeping tics and habits-his surely couldn't be any better-but for all that she looked awkward and inelegant while she slept, she also looked peaceful. It was a sight that he cherished, for all that it had become so rare these days, and Killian harbored the hope that one day he might be able give Emma that sort of peacefulness in the whole of her life, not just her sleep.

The carriage slowed to a stop. Killian glanced out the window. A large, well-to-do inn stood outside, grey smoke rising from its many chimneys. A handful of servants milled about, carrying on with their daily tasks of gathering eggs, chopping firewood, or washing windows. Killian watched them idly, listening with half an ear to the muffled voices of the footman and the driver discussing the length of their stop and the best route to take for the next portion of their journey.

"What's going on?" a sleepy voice asked. "Why are we stopped?"

Killian swung his gaze back to Emma. Her clothes were a little rumpled, her hair in more of a disarray than ever, and her green eyes still heavy with sleep, but Killian thought she looked as beautiful as ever, perhaps all the more so, with the last remnants of her earlier peacefulness clinging to her. Her creamy skin was paler than usual, and Killian wondered if the extra sleep had helped at all, but her demeanor seemed much improved as she studied him with an openly curious expression.

It was an improvement over her cold stares, at any rate.

"Good afternoon," he told her. "Sleep well?"

"Fine, I suppose," she replied slowly, blinking several times in succession, as if she were not yet fully awake, but attempting to be so. "Why are we stopped? Are we there yet?"

He chuckled. "Not even close. We'll arrive at the Westensee kingdom after nightfall. We're stopped right now to give the horses a rest. And to eat, I imagine."

"Ugh." She made a face. "Don't talk to me about food right now."

"The rest didn't help, I gather?"

"Apparently not."

He frowned. "Maybe you'll feel better out in the fresh air. Care to take a walk with me?"

She stared at him with a confused expression. "Yeah, uh...I suppose that would be okay."

Killian rapped on the carriage door to get the footman's attention. "My wife and I would like to take a short walk around the town while our meal is prepared," he informed the footman, who held the carriage door open wider in response. Killian climbed out, snatching up his blue military jacket as he went. The footman held out his hands expectantly. Killian stared at him in consternation.

"He wants to help you put your jacket on," Emma supplied helpfully, watching from inside the carriage. Her own black cloak was spread across her lap in anticipation of their walk.

Killian glanced back at the servant. "That's not necessary," he informed him. "But thank you." He shrugged the coat on, smoothing it out, and waited nearby for his wife. Emma hesitated at the mouth of the carriage, eyeing the footman's proffered hand with trepidation. "You know," he told the servant, "I think my wife will want a fresh gown after her walk. Fetch the trunk and set it out in our lounge room for later."

The footman took his leave to carry out Killian's orders at once.

"Thank you."

"Of course." He hesitated, then held out his own hand. "If you want it," he explained. Surely it couldn't hurt to offer, as was proper? What sort of gentleman would he be if he didn't?

She eyed his hand for several heartbeats, biting her lower lip. Her hand slipped into his. The sudden contact surprised him. He hadn't expected her to accept. Killian tightened his grip just enough to steady her while she climbed out of the carriage, skirts swishing. He let go the moment both feet touched the ground."Would milady like help with her cloak, too, while I'm playing footman?" he asked cheekily.

Emma rolled her eyes and handed him her cloak. He settled it about her shoulders, pulling the hood up, intent on keeping her warm enough, and his eyes raked across her face. Emma was watching him, too, with a spark of something like wistfulness glinting in her eyes before they clouded over and resumed their usual troubled expression. Killian finished tying the hood into place and stepped back. He gestured toward the town surrounding them. "Well? Where would you like to go?"

She looked thoughtful. "A tea shop, if we can find one. It might help settle my stomach if I have some."

"We can go straight to the inn, if you'd rather," he offered. "They can prepare some tea for you."

"No. I want that walk you offered me," she frowned. "I need to stretch my legs after sitting in the carriage for so long."

He offered her his arm. "Lead the way, then," he told her as she curled her hand around him.

They found the tea shop about ten or fifteen minutes later, and Emma's face lit up. Her smiles, rare though they even were these days, often carried a hint of bitterness with them. But the smile that graced her face now, only the second genuine one he'd seen in weeks (and how extraordinary that they had both happened in the same day), was pure joy. Killian treasured the sight of it, tucking the memory away for later, along with her apparent fondness for tea. His time with Emma had been limited to state meetings, balls, or evening dinners, in the past. He had never had the luxury or good fortune to spend time with Emma in a more intimate setting, such as tea time, due to their difference in station. What other things did she like? What else would he learn about her, now that they were wed?

Emma let go of his arm and wandered a short distance away to browse. Killian watched with a smile. He would happily indulge her every whim, if it brought contentment such as this. The knowledge that such contentment was but fleeting, however, dampened his spirits somewhat, until one of the shopkeeper's assistants approached him.

"Can I help you?" a female voice said.

Killian looked to his right. A woman of diminutive stature stood next to him, thickly curled hair spilling over her shoulders. Warm brown eyes and a friendly smile gave her coffee-with-cream skin a glow that reminded him of the way that Emma had looked at him this morning. Killian opened his mouth to politely dismiss her, then thought better of it. "Yes, actually," he told the woman. "I'm to be a guest at someone's residence for a few weeks, and I'd like to take my hosts a gift, though I'm not quite sure what they would like."

"Oh!" She clapped her hands together. "I may have just the thing. Follow me," she said with another smile, this one with a hint of coyness, crooking her finger at him. Killian followed the assistant, brushing past Emma, who was examining a tea set with a pensive expression. She glanced up as he passed, but returned to her browsing without a word.

"Here we are," the woman said, laying her hand on his arm to steer him toward a display. Blue-and-white striped paper bags lined the shelves. She pulled one off the shelf and opened it, holding it out toward him. "Go on, take it," she invited. "Smell it."

Killian took the bag from her, steadfastly ignoring the way her eyelashes fluttered as his hand brushed hers mistakenly. He peered into the bag at the loose-leaf tea. There seemed to be bits of dried fruit in it. He obliged the shopkeeper's assistant and sniffed the tea. He could identify oranges and cinnamon, but the rest of the ingredients were foreign to his nose. Or well-disguised. "What's in it?" he asked a moment later.

She rattled off a list of ingredients, of which Killian only caught half. "It's imported from Charvés," she explained helpfully. "It's been very popular, here. Quite the fashion. Especially in the city proper."

Killian eyed the tea thoughtfully. Would his hosts have access to this blend as well, being an import? "Do you have any local blends?" he finally asked. "Something particular here to Kenth?"

"Of course. Her hand skimmed along his arm as she gently led him toward a different area of the shop. Killian shrugged her off with a frown. Her familiar manner was unnerving. Not to mention highly improper and inappropriate. Could she not see the ring on his left hand, or didn't she care? He glanced nervously toward Emma, but she remained absorbed in her examination of various dainty tea sets. Was she searching for a gift for their hosts as well? Perhaps he ought to go over and consult with her. He had taken a step toward her to do just that when the woman spoke again.

"These are our local teas," she nodded toward the display, "blended right here in this very shop."

Killian leaned forward to examine some of them, scanning labels, and saw the attendant shift closer to him, as if to speak intimately. He selected a tea at random and thrust it at her, clearing his throat. "This one," he told her. "Wrap it up, if you please."

She blinked in surprise. "Oh, of course!" she recovered after a moment. "I'll just take care of this while you keep shopping." She flashed him another smile. "I'll return in just a moment," she promised.

_Please don't_, Killian thought, somewhat relieved as she walked away toward the front counter, where the shopkeeper stood poring over a purchase registry. If she continued her unwanted attentions despite his subtle rejections, he would be forced to say something to her, and he dreaded the idea. It would surely draw Emma's attention, and although he knew she would not feel jealous in any personal manner, he doubted she would appreciate the slight to her person or station. The sad fact was, what the shopkeeper's assistant was doing could get her in serious trouble, if Emma chose to enforce any of the penalties the law allowed for this situation. He had only just gotten married, for gods' sakes, and the situation he faced with Emma was complicated enough without borrowing additional trouble.

Killian gave himself another moment to collect himself and then made his way over to the tea sets, where he had last seen Emma. When he drew nearer, he realized she was no longer crouched among the displays, but had drifted farther down, toward the teas. Smiling to himself, he placed his hands in his trouser pockets and shifted course just a little. A tea set caught his eye as he passed through the aisle, however, and he paused to examine it. Bold strokes of black stood out against the glazed white porcelain of a teapot, complemented by tiny, feather-like strokes of red, forming the likeness of a cherry tree in bloom. He fingered the delicate cups that accompanied the teapot; they bore a similar, if somewhat smaller design, each tree unique to itself, which told Killian that they had been hand-painted by an actual artist.

He glanced toward Emma. It seemed the sort of thing she might like, but he couldn't be certain how she would receive such a gift from him, given her shifting moods. Was it too soon to gift her with something like this? Tradition, Snow and Charming had informed him a short time before the wedding, dictated that the royal spouses gift each other with a present. Killian had picked out a pair of simple pearl earrings with Snow's help; they were tasteful yet practical, she'd informed him, and something that Emma would appreciate for years to come. But what hadn't been said between Killian and his then future mother-in-law, but which had been clearly understood by them both, was that the earrings were a _safe_ gift.

Killian considered the tea set again. It seemed a much more personal gift to give her than earrings, considering the circumstances. Was she ready for something like that? He doubted it. And yet, he realized, there was the distinct possibility that he would never see a set quite like this again. A set that seemed so very suited to Emma.

"See something you like?" the shopkeeper's assistant inquired, appearing at his side again.

He glanced at his wife again. "I do." Killian turned to the assistant. "Wrap up this set, if you please. And be discreet about it."

"Of course," she agreed with a puzzled smile.

"Excellent. I'll come up front shortly to pay." He turned on his heel and weaved through several more aisles toward Emma, who had returned to examining the tea sets.

"I didn't think your tastes ran toward rosebuds and hummingbirds," he teased as he joined her. "We really _don't_ know each other, do we?"

She cracked a slight smile. "They don't. It's going to be a gift to my mother, to apologize for being such a bear to her during all the wedding planning the past few weeks." She glared over at him. "Don't even say it."

"Wouldn't dream of it, love." He grinned. "By the way, I do have a sweet tooth." He winked at her. "Just for future reference, you understand."

"Were you always this much of a jackass?" she sighed, picking up the card with the description and price of the tea set on it. "You always came off as such a gentleman before." She brushed past him, making a beeline for the front of the shop to make her purchase.

"Hey!" he protested, following at her heels. "I'm always a gentleman."

Emma handed the card to the shopkeeper, who sent his hovering assistant off to fetch the set. "Really?" she arched a brow. "I-" Her mouth snapped shut. Her hand darted out to grip the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white.

"Emma?" Killian asked, his heart skipping a beat. A sickening sensation formed in the pit of his stomach. "What's wrong? Are you all right?" She shook her head. Killian looked up and spotted the assistant who had helped him. "Fetch my wife some water, please."

"Wife?" she echoed confusedly, studying Emma. Her eyes widened in sudden recognition. "Oh, Your Highness!" she gasped. Her eyes darted over to Killian, taking in his military uniform and the ring on his left hand. "Then you must be-Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"Just get the water," he ordered, none too kindly. "Emma, love, I'm going to help you to a chair," he warned in a low tone, drawing close to her. Killian wrapped an arm around her waist. She sagged against him, revealing to him without a word just how much willpower and muscle she must have exerted to stay upright rather than disgrace herself by collapsing.

"Emma," he lecture softly as he guided her toward the chair the shopkeeper had produced from the back store room, "you need to tell me when you're feeling bad."

"I did! The walk helped. I was fine until a minute ago, I swear." She sat down and the assistant reappeared with the water. Killian took it from her and gave it to Emma. "You haven't hardly eaten or drank anything since this morning," he chided, "no wonder you nearly fainted."

"I was asleep in the carriage most of the morning," she argued. "How was I supposed to eat or drink anything? Through my ear?" she finished sarcastically.

"No, but that's beginning to sound like a bloody good idea," he glared, "since you won't take care of yourself." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Gods, Emma! You gave me a fright!"

"I'm sorry," she said contritely.

"For once," he smiled, "I'm going to accept your apology. Though I believe I owe you one as well. I should have been taking better care of you, lass. I'm sorry."

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then shook her head. "Never mind. I don't want to argue."

"Now I know you're feeling sick," he smile. "Probably delirious. Maybe I should send for a physician." She glared at him and took a long drink from her cup. "That's a good girl," he approved. "Drink every drop of it. I'm going to pay the bill, then we'll return to the inn." He winked at her, knowing it would only annoy her further. "Try not to miss me too much."

She smiled faintly, not at all the sarcastic response he had been expecting.

"Okay."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I decided to do a double chapter update to go ahead and answer some of the questions you guys have had in your reviews. It's also been very hard to keep my mouth closed about certain things, unless someone asked me about them directly (and only one person did), so I figured, why drag it out? Let's blow the door wide open on this whole thing.**

* * *

They arrived at the Westensees' residence two and half days later than originally planned, toward late afternoon. After Emma's near-fainting experience, Killian had insisted on taking a couple days to rest before they returned to traveling, in order to give her time to recover. Emma thought it going a bit overboard, herself, but Killian wasn't swayed from his course of action once he'd settled on it, despite even her best persuasive efforts.

"We'll leave when you're properly recovered," he'd told her, after sending a courier ahead to the Westensees to inform them of their delay.

Emma nestled further into the corner of her carriage seat, remembering the way Killian had disappeared for quite some time, after summoning a maid to help her undress and settle into bed. He arranged for lodgings at the inn, both for themselves and for their footman and coachman. Not to mention securing feed and proper stabling for the horses. But despite the very real tasks he'd needed to take care of, Emma suspected that Killian had used the time away to give her some space. He knew how much she treasured any little time she managed to secure on her own. Princesses weren't often left to their own devices, suffering from an excess of duties, lessons, and social activities.

They'd spoken of it once, Emma remembered suddenly as the carriage rolled through the large Westensee estate, the wood-covered grounds glowing eerily in the orange and gold corona of the setting sun. She had been seventeen, and Killian had discovered her hiding behind a rather large sculpture to the left of the grand staircase, her feet sore and tired from dancing with so many princes, noblemen's sons, and dignitaries. Emma had just wanted to escape to her room, read a chapter or two of her favorite book, maybe just go to bed, but she'd known none of that would be possible for at least two or three more hours.

_"Princess?" the deep, familiar voice inquired, startling her out of her wits. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give you a fright," the Lieutenant said as she turned to face him._

_"No, it's um, it's all right," she mumbled, mortified that the Lieutenant had caught her hiding from the guests. She smoothed down the skirt of her velvet ball gown, nervous in his presence. Although she much preferred the comfort of leather breeches and a loose tunic, she was nonetheless pleased that Killian was seeing her in the scarlet creation with its sweetheart neckline and beaded crystals sewn to the bodice, gloves covering her arms from fingertips to shoulders. Emma had been hoping to see him all night, dreamed of dancing in his arms; they always shared one dance when he attended their parties on shore leave. One treasured, precious dance. She almost hadn't left the crush in the ballroom because she'd been afraid she would miss him, miss her chance to dance with him, and yet here he was, under entirely different circumstances. Alone with her._

_Emma knew her cheeks must be red, as much from her embarrassment as the effect his accent had on her. Gods, that voice! She bit her lip, an un-princess-like behavior according to her mother, trying to dispel the recurring thoughts of what Lieutenant Jones's voice might sound like when it was thick with arousal._

_"I, uh, I'm just-"_

_"Hiding?" he supplied with a faintly amused smile._

_"Yes," she sighed, "you caught me."_

_"Forgive me if I'm being too forward, Your Highness, but..._why_ are you hiding?"_

_"I'm tired," she admitted. "These balls mother and father throw aren't high on my list of preferred activities."_

_"Such as archery and fencing and horseback riding?" he teased, arching his eyebrows._

_"Just so," she agreed. "_Here_," she swept her hand toward the ballroom, "there's too much noise, too many people... and if that's not enough, my feet are sore, I'm sick of being polite, and I just want to _sit_ for a while." She shook her head. "But mostly, I need some time to myself, to soak in the silence."_

_"I see." Their eyes met. Something like empathy shone in his eyes, warming Emma from the inside out. She smiled shyly. Lieutenant Jones smiled back. "I must confess," he admitted softly, "I'm not altogether fond of these events, myself, but it seems neither one of us has much choice in attending."_

_Emma inhaled, wanting to say something further: Thank you. Or, Stay with me. Or-You have the most beautiful blue eyes. Anything to keep their conversation going._

_"Begging your pardon, Highness," he said suddenly, "there's someone I must speak with." He bowed, grazing a kiss across her knuckles that sent a shiver down her spine. "By your leave?" Blue eyes gazed up at her through long, dark lashes, the Lieutenant still bent over her hand._

_"Of course." She withdrew her hand with reluctance. Emma watched him go, with no small amount of regret. She almost never had the opportunity to speak with Lieutenant Jones alone-truly alone, without her parents or state dignitaries or a ballroom full of guests surrounding them. As always, he'd been the perfect, polite gentleman. But in her most secret of fantasies, he was nothing of the sort. When she imagined them together, usually late at night when the palace was dark and still, and most everyone was asleep, Emma fantasized about a Lieutenant Killian Jones whose stiffness of manner and penchant for rules and good form melted away under her caress, who became a charming scoundrel of a pirate in her bed._

_Emma closed her eyes with a breathless sigh. She leaned against the wall, imagining the sort of things he might do to her, the sort of liberties she might gladly let him take, if not for the differences in their station. Heat coursed through her, settling in her thighs. Emma hoped fervently that no one else would find her. She couldn't possibly return to the ball for a while; she had to be as flushed as a freshly deflowered virgin. And if she went back to the ball _now_, people would take one look at her and think that that was exactly what had happened._

_"Oh Killian," she whispered under her breath, wishing she could refer to him so intimately, that he returned her feelings, that there was a path that would lead to happiness with him._

_But that was nothing but wishful thinking._

_"Princess?"_

_Emma's eyes shot open, surprised to see Lieutenant Jones standing before her again. He watched her uncertainly. "Lieutenant Jones," she said breathlessly, not quite recovered from her indulgence of intimate thoughts concerning him. "I thought you had left."_

_"I did. I went to speak with your mother. I hope you don't mind, princess, but I told her you were feeling faint, overheated in the crush of the ballroom." He studied her again. "It looks as if I wasn't too far off from the truth."_

_Her cheeks grew hotter. "I'm fine," she lied._

_"Well," he said with a skeptical look, "I'm to escort you to your room, either way." He offered her his arm with a smile._

_She accepted it, stepping out from behind the statue. Their shoes echoed on the marble floor as they approached the staircase. Neither of them said a word as they moved through the palace, arm in arm. It was a comfortable silence, and Emma had the odd sense that it brought them closer._

_"Why?" she finally asked as they stood outside her room. "Why did you tell my mother that?"_

_"Everyone needs some time alone, some time to think," he said simply. "Overwhelmed princesses especially," he told her with a soft smile._

_Emma's heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, she clasped her hands in his. Shock shone in his ocean-hued eyes, and Emma flushed. "Thank you, Lieutenant," she murmured. She surged up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek before her brain could catch up with her hormones. Had she been anyone other than a princess, the action would have been impertinent. As it was, it teetered on the line of impropriety, but Emma knew Lieutenant Jones would never take advantage._

_Yet when she pulled away, for one crazy moment, when their faces were but inches apart, Emma thought she saw something heated in his gaze, thought he might kiss her._

_But the moment passed, almost as fast as she could blink, and Lieutenant Jones stepped back. He pulled his hands from her grasp, clasping them together behind his back. "Goodnight, princess," he said softly._

_"Goodnight," she sighed, turning away to unlock her door. She slipped inside her room, smiling at him once more before she shut the door. Emma leaned against it, listening to his footsteps fade away. _Goodnight, Killian,_ she thought sadly._

"Emma."

Killian's voice shook her from the memory, and she looked at her husband, marveling again at life's cruel sense of humor. She'd never been able to have him when she'd wanted him. Her lovestruck younger self would have killed to be in the position she was in right now, never mind that Killian hardly loved _her_ any more than he had ever loved her younger self. Still, if not for Neal, maybe things would have been different. Maybe she and Killian could have had the chance to be something more, to grow fond of each other, at least.

But then, if not for Neal, she'd never have married Killian to begin with. The irony, thick and bitter, was almost more than she could stand. The only way she had been able to secure the man she used to love was through the man she had thought she had a reasonable chance of a future with. And the worse part of it all was that neither of them, Killian or Neal, had ever loved her.

Maybe she didn't deserve love.

"Emma," Killian repeated from the other side of the carriage. Emma realized with a start that the carriage had stopped, and she had never responded to him. "We're here. You all right, love?" He watched her, blue eyes filled with concern.

"Yes."

"Don't lie to me," he insisted. "At least give me that consideration. You looked straight at me and then lost yourself in thought again."

She sighed, shifting restlessly. "I can't simply stop thinking, Killian, much as I'd like to."

"I know," he answered, his tone as serious and somber as her own. "But do come up for a smile now and then, love."

"Yours or mine?" she deadpanned.

"Why, lady's preference, of course," he answered with a straight face, blue eyes dancing with mirth.

Emma snorted. There was very little to be happy about these days, so far as she was concerned. But Killian was being very kind about everything. _Too_ kind, really. She certainly didn't deserve it. He _was_ making quite an effort on her behalf to make the best of things, and Emma supposed she owed him the courtesy of trying to rein in some of her moodiness-at least in his presence. It wasn't his fault he'd been roped into marrying her.

"Killian-"

The carriage door opened, interrupting her. Killian shot her an apologetic look. "Hold that thought, love," he said, exiting the carriage. He glanced in askance at Emma. She shook her head. Killian turned to the footman, waving him away with orders to take their luggage inside, and held out his hand. Emma took it, stepping out of the carriage with relief. She had spent too many hours cramped into its seats, even if they had broken their journey up. She inhaled the crisp air into her lungs, and Killian released her hand. "Come," he said quietly, "they're waiting for us."

Emma followed Killian across the courtyard, lifting the hem of her plum colored skirt slightly as they climbed up the steps to the palace. A woman in a powder-blue gown with long, wavy red hair and a bright smile waited at the top, next to a tall, clean-shaven man wearing a military uniform similar to Killian's, with neatly combed raven hair.

"Captain," Killian greeted him with a firm handshake and a smile. "Or is it 'Your Highness' while we are here?"

"Considering I did nothing to merit my position as prince, 'Captain' will do just fine," the other man returned with a smirk.

The red-haired woman swatted his arm gently. "Eric," she reproached, "do stop teasing."

"Yes, dear," he acquiesced with a fond smile. "Ariel, I'd like you to meet Her Highness, Princess Emma Charming. Of course, you're already acquainted with Killian, though his title is a bit more impressive these days." He smirked at his mate. "Prince Consort, Lt. Killian Jones, isn't it?"

Killian shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Something like that.

"It's wonderful to see you again, Killian," Ariel said, sweeping him into a hug. She turned to Emma. "And you," she said, "I'm pleased to finally meet you," she said, pulling her into a hug. Emma sent a panicked looked to Killian. "I hope we can become the best of friends, Emma, as our husbands are."

"Uh," she stuttered, uncertain how to respond.

"Emma," Killian spoke up, "are you feeling all right?" She shot him a confused look. "You look quite _pale_," he went on with a significant look.

Ariel released Emma with a cry, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh, how silly of me! How could I have forgotten! You must rest, Emma! We'll have servants show you and Killian to you chamber. Supper won't be ready for another couple of hours yet."

_Thank you_, Emma told Killian silently, holding his gaze for a moment.

He smiled softly.

Supper was a casual affair-at least as casual as a palace meal could be-but it was private, and for that Emma was grateful. The idea of putting up a false front for a room full of strangers, smiling when she didn't want to smile, talking when she didn't want to talk, appealed to her about as much as imbibing a glassful of vinegar. As it was, her companions carried the bulk of the conversation, content to let Emma contribute as little as she wished. It gave her time to observe and consider her new husband, to acquaint herself with the Lieutenant she had once thought she understood so well, shared a connection with. What kind of man was as he _really_?

But as supper progressed, and Killian grew more and more relaxed in the company of his friends, Emma came to a disturbing conclusion: the Lieutenant was in fact as nice and genuine and charming as he'd always seemed to her as a lovestruck adolescent. And he had quite the sarcastic wit when occasion called for it, if the stories Eric shared about him were any indication. The prince was telling the tales as much for her benefit as to reminisce with Killian, she knew, catching the prince's clear blue eyes considering her from time to time as he spoke. But to what end, Emma had no idea. If Eric meant to spark her curiosity, well, it was certainly aflame, she'd give him that. But if he hoped to thereby draw her into conversation, he had sorely miscalculated. Emma couldn't have contributed to the conversation, even if she had wanted to. And, strangely, she found after a while that she _did_ want to. But she was too much in shock, too confused, to even open her mouth.

"Emma," Ariel finally said over dessert (a delicious chocolate mousse that Emma practically inhaled, much to Killian's, and their hosts', amusement), "perhaps you would like to accompany me to my appointment with my dressmaker tomorrow morning?"

Emma slanted a look in Killian's direction.

_Go_, his eyes encouraged.

"What about our morning walk?" she inquired. Killian had taken to escorting her for a stroll each morning, since the exercise and fresh air seemed to do her some good, brightening her mood, if nothing else. It was the next best thing to her usual morning ride. The idea of spending her morning at the dressmaker's instead made Emma feel restless and unhappy.

"We can take our walk in the afternoon," he offered. His gaze drifted down to her belly, its slight swell disguised by the cut of her gown. "Get yourself some new gowns, love," he said softly.

Emma swallowed. He was right, of course. Her old dresses wouldn't be wearable for much longer. It was a reality she had been doing her best to avoid confronting. "All right," she told Ariel, "I'd be delighted to accompany you." A lie, but what else could she say? She had nothing against Ariel (she didn't even know the woman), but a dressmaker's appointment was the last place Emma wanted to be on a _normal_ day. Now that she carried Neal's child...Well, it was even less appealing. Emma knew it was ridiculous. She couldn't hide from reality, especially when it was growing at an alarming rate inside of her, causing her to empty the contents of her stomach on a regular basis (most often during her morning walks with Killian, who simply held her hair out of the way and waited for it to subside). But going to the dressmaker's, getting new clothes... Emma wasn't certain she was ready for that.

"Wonderful!" Ariel smiled. "It will give us the chance to get acquainted with each other."

Dinner concluded soon after that, and the foursome retired to the drawing room. Eric and Killian took a little wine, but Ariel, Emma noticed, chose to drink water with her. "You don't have to do that," she told her host.

"Oh, it's no problem," Ariel said. She cast a glance over at Eric. "Besides, tea this late in the evening would only keep me awake all night."

"Uncle Killy!" a voice shrieked. A small form in a long, white nightdress streaked through the room, dark hair rippling behind her. She leaped, throwing herself onto Killian with a sigh of delight.

"Oof!" Killian grunted on impact. "Hello, Melly," he grinned, swinging her up into his arms and settling her against his side. "Snuck out of the nursery again when your nurse fell asleep?"

Her head bobbed up and down enthusiastically, while her parents looked on in amused exasperation. "I had to _see_ you, Uncle Killy! Tomorrow takes _forever_ to get here!"

"Well," Killian said, leaning head toward her conspiratorially, "it tends to arrive sooner, Melly dearest, when you sleep as you're supposed to!"

"But I'll miss all the fun with you!" she whined.

"I'll still be here for fun tomorrow," he promised, setting her down on the floor again. "But there's someone I'd like you to meet, first." He led the little girl over to the settee where Emma sat. "Melly, this is my wife, Emma. Emma, this is Melly."

"Hi," the little girl said with wide eyes. "You're pretty."

"You're pretty, too," Emma returned with a smiled of her own, entertained despite herself. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Melly, time for bed now," Ariel said firmly, "You've said your hellos."

"You heard your mum," Killian said when Melly looked as if she wanted to protest. "And make sure to apologize to your nurse for sneaking away."

"All right," Melly grumbled darkly, a scowl on her face. She brightened. "Good night, Uncle Killy!" she said with an enthusiastic hug to his legs, her mood changing back to cheerful so fast that it made Emma's head spin. She skipped over to Ariel, leaving Emma to stare after her in fascination.

"How old is she?" Emma asked, after mother and daughter left.

"Four," Eric answered. "And quite the handful, as you can see." But it was quite clear, despite his exasperated tone, that Eric loved his daughter more than life itself.

"Considering some of your exploits," Killian teased, "I'd say she comes by it honestly."

Eric snorted. "You're one to talk. Liam's told me plenty about what you got up to before you enlisted."

"Perhaps the navy did us both some good," Killian admitted. "Congratulations again on your promotion, mate."

"Thank you. I'm just sorry duty precluded our attendance at your wedding. Melly would have loved to strew flowers down the aisle."

"And we would have loved to have had her," Emma said quietly.

Killian's gaze swung over to her. Blue eyes blazed with a mixture of gratitude and surprise. Emma dimly registered Eric saying something about being glad they'd at least arranged a visit. Killian replied to him, but his gaze still centered on Emma. He tilted his head speculatively, and his eyes traveled down to her belly.

Guilt surged through her. Did he regret that he would be father to a child that wasn't his? _Of course he does_, she thought. _Don't be a fool_. Self-loathing suffocated her guilt. A knot twisted in her stomach. "Pardon me," she said suddenly, rising to her feet. "I think I need to lie down."

Killian was at her side in a blink. "Are you feeling ill?" he murmured. "Or simply tired?"

"I-" She swallowed. Neither were accurate. Neither were a lie. "I need to go."

He reached for her. "Let me help you."

Her lungs closed up, and she began to sweat. "No!" she said harshly, moving away. He drew back with a frown, his brow furrowed. "No, I'm-I'll have one of the maids take me. I'm-I'm sorry."

"Emma, don't-"

But she fled from the room before he could finish, before he could say the hated words, because she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it _was_ her fault. If not for her, for her stupid naivety, he'd be free; he wouldn't be trapped in a marriage he'd been given no choice about. She sniffed, tears of hatred and self-rage rolling down her cheeks. She lurched down the corridor blindly, and plowed straight into the returning Ariel.

"Emma?" Her voice was laced with concern. "Oh, Emma," she repeated softly. Her gaze was sympathetic, even compassionate, and Emma knew she didn't deserve it. "Come on," the other woman said. "I'll walk you to your chamber."

Emma followed, praying she would be asleep before Killian returned to join her. She couldn't bear to look in those blue eyes, the ones she had once loved and fantasized about, and see her own pain and loathing reflected in them. All she wanted, all she craved, was oblivion.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: WARNING: possible trigger event in the last (third) section of this chapter. If you think you might be at all sensitive to something like that, I suggest you skip it and pick back up in chapter six. Everything that happens there will be referenced later to fill you in on the gist of it.**

* * *

Killian stared at the empty doorway, trying to process what had just happened. One moment, they'd shared a connection through Melly, and he'd begun to entertain thoughts of what raising the child within Emma would be like, if he would be a good father to it, and the next Emma was offering flimsy excuses and fleeing from the room, visibly upset. He shouldn't have tried to touch her, especially when she was already struggling, he knew that now. He simply hadn't been thinking. He'd acted on impulse, born of Emma's quiet acceptance of his aid in the past few days, of her allowing him to act as her buffer from unwanted contact with other people. He'd thought...assumed...that she was growing comfortable with him. That she trusted him.

He'd been horribly wrong.

Killian made his way over to one of the chairs and sat down, feeling numb. Eric heaved a sigh. Killian vaguely registered the sounds of a drink being poured, and heavy footsteps. A glass was thrust into his line of vision. He looked up, confused.

"You look like you could use it."

He accepted the drink, swirling it around in the glass before he took a drink. "Rum?" he coughed in surprise.

Eric shrugged a shoulder. He sat down in a chair across from Killian, holding his own glass of rum. "Well," he said, "this isn't the sort of situation wine soothes particularly well, is it?"

"No. I suppose not." He took another drink of the strong alcohol. He'd never cared much for it. The taste left something to be desired, and he hated to become one of the rum-swilling sailor stereotypes. And it led to bad form among his sailors, if he allowed them to indulge when he and Liam were sailing; so he didn't. But at the moment, Killian found he simply didn't care about any of that.

He took another drink.

"Does she even want the baby?" Eric finally asked, voicing the question Killian has asked himself a thousand times.

"I don't know," he admitted. "We never talk about it. Emma avoids mentioning it, even by implication, as much as possible."

"Hmmph," Eric grunted. He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment. "Any word about Neal?"

"Not a damn thing. He's disappeared into the gods-damned thin air," Killian growled.

"What about Goldberg?"

"He's hardly talking; he'll protect his son."

"If you had evidence that he knows something, some proof, you could arrest him. Make him talk."

"We don't. The count and his son have been very careful," he answered bitterly. "They know how to cover their own tracks."

"Does Charming think it's possible to find him?"

Killian shrugged. "From his dogged pursuit to bring him to justice, I'd have to assume the answer is yes." Neal had better hope that it is Charming who catches up to him, and not I. I'd like nothing better than to horsewhip him for what he's done to Emma." He down the rest of his rum in one large gulp. "For what he's putting her through now." Killian shook his head. "Emma blames herself, you know. Believes it was her fault."

Eric stood up and walked across the room to retrieve the bottle of rum. "I don't know what to tell you, mate," he sighed, returning to his chair. He leaned across and poured another measure of rum into Killian's glass."Nothing about this situation is easy."

Killian smiled self-mockingly. "You know me: I've always loved a challenge." He scrubbed at his chin with one hand, agitated.

"A beanstalk isn't grown in a day," Eric quoted at him.

"No," he agreed. "And make no mistake, I'm in this for the long haul. Emma deserves a happy life, as does the child she carries."

"Maybe Ariel can help," Eric suggested quietly.

"What, magic?" Killian exclaimed, looking up. "When she's with child?" He shook his head. "No. I won't risk it for either of them."

"No," Eric said. "Not magic. Ariel...she has a way with people."

"Yes, she's quite charming, I'll grant you, but how's that to help Emma at all?"

"Because what Emma can really use right now is a friend." Killian winced. "And as much as you'd like to step into that role for her right now," Eric continued, "you're a man. And that complicates everything. Perhaps if she had another woman to talk to, it might help."

"Perhaps," he agreed, lifting his glass to his lips. Killian took a drink, the spiced liquid burning a trail across his tongue that wasn't altogether unpleasant anymore. "But Emma needs to know that I'm here for her, and that I'm not going away. Even when she does her best to withdraw and push me away."

"Well," Eric said after a long while in which each of the men nursed their drinks pensively, "actions speak louder than words, and I don't know that you can do much more than you're already doing. Give it time. She's still newly pregnant, mate. That's adjustment enough. Everything Neal did is still fresh in her mind."

"I know. I know. I thought we'd made a little progress, that's all."

"Perhaps you did. But true progress doesn't come without a few setbacks, Killian. And in this case..."

"And in this case, probably a whole bloody lot of them," Killian finished for him.

"Now, now," Eric smiled slightly, "let's not get too discouraged, Killy." Killian's eyes narrowed at the use of Melly's nickname for him. "You are, after all, in this for the long haul, as you said." Eric sobered. "Win her trust, Killian. Then her friendship. The rest will sort itself out eventually."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, mate?"

"Nothing," Eric answered, tipping back his glass of rum to swallow its last dregs. "Just a hunch."

* * *

Killian gave Emma space over the next few days, although he took care to make it clear that he wasn't avoiding her. He took his usual walk in the morning with Emma, and they had afternoon tea together in the privacy of their guest chamber, but beyond that, they saw little of each other outside meals, Killian dividing the rest of his time between entertaining Melly and helping Eric with the estate. Killian had a lot to learn about helping Emma run a kingdom, and learning the particulars of running a small estate seemed a good place to start.

For the little time they did spend together, Killian and Emma fell into a quiet routine. And while it wasn't easy, given the tension between them, it was achingly familiar, the manner in which they seemed able to communicate without words. There had been moments, brief and seldom though they had been during the past seven years, in which Killian had glimpse something of a kindred spirit in Emma. That such kinship seemed to be sliding out of his fingers pained him, and on the eighth day, he decided to do something about it.

"Not just yet, love," he told her as she settled her cloak around her shoulders in preparation for their morning walk, "Let's wait a moment."

She turned to him in surprise, green eyes reflecting her confusion. "What for? To wait out the snow?"

They were the first words she had directly spoken to him in days. They were neither intimate, nor friendly, but they weren't openly hostile or distant, either. To Killian, they were more precious than jewels.

"No. I have something to give you."

She blinked. "But...we already gave each other our weddings gifts back at the inn, before we got here."

"I know. This is something different. Close your eyes."

"But-"

"Emma, love, just close them," he said gently. "Trust me."

She narrowed her eyes, a suspicious look on her face. With a frown, she slowly closed her eyes. "Now what?" she asked.

"Nothing. Just stay where you are. And no peeking!"

She snorted. "I do not peek!"

Killian smirked. That wasn't entirely true, but he wasn't about to point that out to her. Emma had always been the impatient sort, and she'd never _quite_ managed to rein in _all_ her excitement about her birthday. She loved it all: the gifts, the visiting relatives, even the ball thrown in her honor. (Her birthday ball was, in fact, the only ball she enjoyed.)

Emma seemed to sense his thoughts. "That was _one_ time!" she insisted, her eyes still firmly shut.

"So you say. I'm not convinced." He opened his trunk, rummaging around inside of it. "Don't you remember? I caught you red-handed."

_The princess stood in the empty ballroom, near a long table, which spanned the length of an entire wall. Her hair was plaited in a long braid that hung down her back, the hips of her slender form more apparent than usual in her fitted red riding leathers. Wisps of hair framed her face in a golden halo, indicating she'd been out riding already, mesmerizing Killian, whose breath caught in his throat for a moment. Emma looked a vision, a beautiful angel, to him. But then, she always did. Emma would have looked stunning in sackcloth._

_She hummed to herself, a tune so adorably off key Killian couldn't identify it in the slightest. He grinned, watching her lean over the table to examine one of the presents. Long, slender fingers slid under the edge of the wrapping paper, slowly working the glue loose with a gentle shimmying and push of her fingers. _

_Well, well, well. What an interesting development._

_Emma lifted the flap of the present and tilted her head to the side, biting her lower lip._

_"Princess?"_

_Emma jumped back from the pile of gifts, clasping her hands behind her back guiltily. "Lieutenant Jones!" she exclaimed. "What-what are you doing here?"_

_He held up the package, wrapped in plain brown parcel paper. "From the Captain and the rest of the crew on the Jewel," he explained. His eyes slid over to the partially unwrapped present, but he said nothing. Emma flushed. She sidled back over to the table and quickly slapped the flap of wrapping paper back into place. Killian jerked his head toward the table, amused. "See anything that looks promising?"_

_"No," Emma frowned. "I mean, yes, I do, but..."_

_Killian placed the package on the table. "But what?" he asked curiously._

_"The one I'm looking for isn't here." Her forehead crinkled. She frowned again, disappointment sparking in her eyes._

_Killian hesitated. "Forgive me, princess, but how do you know it's not here? What are you looking for?"_

_She sighed. "Every birthday I've had for the past few years," she explained, "there's one unsigned gift in the pile."_

_"It's an easy enough mistake to make, forgetting to sign the calling card," he mused, "or for one to get lost. They are rather small."_

_"Maybe, but I think this is deliberate._

_"Why do you say that?"_

_"It's wrapped the same way every year: red paper with curling black ribbon."_

_"Hmm, that does indicate a bit of forethought," he agreed. "Perhaps you've an admirer."_

_She shook her head. "No," she disagreed, "these gifts are nearly always the same thing: a book of adventure stories. Although..."_

_Killian waited._

_"..._one_ year, it was a book of verse instead." She smiled slightly. "My favorite book now. I don't even like verse, usually. But these are...different. They aren't sappy poems about love or flowers or nature's crowning glory," she rolled her eyes. "They're about life, about discovery, about the longing for something more."_

_"Then perhaps he realizes you wouldn't appreciate the usual sort of gifts from an admirer."_

_Emma looked thoughtful. "Maybe," she said slowly, "but why hasn't he ever said anything to me?" Her green eyes flicked up to his. "It doesn't make sense."_

_"I can't say, princess," he said helplessly._

_She waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Looks like it's over and done with, anyway." Emma turned to him expectantly, her eyes shining with anticipation. "You'll be here for the ball, Lieutenant?" she smiled._

_"No, I'm afraid not," he admitted with regret. "I set sail in two days. King's orders."_

_Her face fell. "The morning of my birthday," she murmured. "You'll miss the ball."_

_"Aye."_

_"How long will you be gone?"_

_"Three months."_

_"So long?" She arched a brow. "It must be quite an undertaking."_

_"I'm not at liberty to say," he said uncomfortably. _

_"Of course not," she agreed. "Which means it must have something to do with Regina."_

_"I'm-"_

_"Not at liberty to say," she finished with a laugh. "That's a yes."_

_Killian didn't know how to respond to that without risk of Emma further guessing the particulars of his mission. "I should take my leave," he said after a moment of awkward silence. "There's much to be done in preparation for our journey."_

_"Of course."_

_He bowed, lifting her hand. "Goodbye, Princess." He kissed her hand briefly and took his leave, returning to the Jewel. Liam kept him so busy, Killian didn't have another chance to return to the palace. But in the wee hours of the morning, on the day they were to set sail, when the sun had not quite peeked over the horizon, Killian called in favors with two guards and one servant to gain entry into the castle and access the ballroom. And there he left one book, wrapped in red paper with curling black ribbon. No calling card. He didn't want to disappoint Emma on her eighteenth birthday. He'd be forced to stop leaving them all too soon, he knew, in the coming years when she betrothed herself to some moron of a prince or nobleman's son who wasn't half worthy of her._

_But for now, for this year and this day, Killian would leave his gift, content with the knowledge that they pleased Emma. It mattered not in the slightest that she didn't know his identity, and he had no intention of ever revealing it to her. Her happiness was the only thing he'd ever desired anyway._

"Open your eyes," Killian said after he'd retrieved the box from his trunk.

Golden-brown eyelashes floated upward, revealing her jade eyes. Curiosity tinged with caution peered back at him from their depths. She took the proffered box and sat down on their bed. "What is it?"

"Open it and find out," he teased. "It isn't a surprise if I spoil it for you beforehand."

Emma slowly untied the white ribbon that held the yellow box together and removed it, setting it aside. She pried the box's lid off. Her face scrunched together in confusion. "I don't understand." She lifted the pale green tunic up, sleeves falling to the sides as she peered at it quizzically.

"There's more. Keep digging."

Emma laid the tunic next to her and sifted through the paper inside the box. She pulled out a pair of black trousers and stared. "Killian," she faltered, "what is this?"

"I should think it's fairly obvious, love."

"But-I can't wear them. I'm..." She trailed off, not quite daring to say the word, even now.

"That's why the trousers are made of cloth, lass, and not leather. I spoke with Ariel's dressmaker after your appointment several days ago. Asked if she'd like to take on a special project."

"But...I'm going to be huge in a few months. Even cloth isn't going to stretch _that_ much."

"That's why it was a special project, love. She's familiar enough with creating gowns for ladies in your condition. The trick was to alter the trousers and tunic in the same way." He watched her, waiting for a reaction. Any reaction. "If you like them, we can have her make more," he ventured.

"Why?" she asked suddenly, looking a bit dazed.

"Just because you're expecting, Emma, doesn't mean you have to give up who you are."

She blinked. "How did she make them so fast? We haven't even received our gowns yet. They won't be ready until the middle of next week, at least."

She turned to him with narrowed eyes when he didn't answer. "Consider it a peace offering, love." He hesitated before speaking again. He knew there was some truth to Eric's words about Ariel being in a better position to be Emma's friend right now than he, but it couldn't hurt to extend the invitation anyway, could it? Even if she wasn't ready yet, at least she would know he cared, that he was here for her when she was ready. And how could he win her trust, as Eric suggested, if he wasn't first on friendly terms with her?

"I know this situation, this marriage is very different from what you imagined as a girl," he began, "but...I'd like to work toward friendship, at least."

"Friends?" she echoed.

"Yes." He smiled crookedly. "After all, if we're going to fight like this, Emma, I'd rather fight with a friend than a stranger or an enemy." He paused. "But if you're not ready, that's fine, too."

"Friends, huh?" she said after a long silence. "I'd like to be. I'll try, but... I'm not...I'm not the person I used to be. Some things are the same," her eyes flicked to the clothes he'd had the dressmaker create for her, "but..." She sighed.

"I know. You'll sort it out."

"And I can't promise I won't lose my temper or yell at you or cry uncontrollably."

"I know. I don't expect you to, Emma."

She looked at him helplessly. "Then what do you expect from me, Killian?" she demanded, frustration edging into her voice.

It was his turn to blink. "Nothing."

She looked at him skeptically, her mouth twisting into a bitter smile. "Men always expect something," she insisted. "You say it's not sex, so what is it?"

"Emma," he told her tiredly, "I am not Neal. But you are going to have to figure that out for yourself. Just...give us a chance, will you? When you're ready."

"I'll try," she repeated. "But I can't promise when that will be. I don't know if I'm ready yet."

"I understand." He smiled. "Wear the new clothes for our walk, then, love?"

A smile threatened on her serious face, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. "Give me a minute." She shucked off her cloak and bundled the clothing up in her arms. Emma disappeared behind the changing partition, a length of painted, hinged wood that folded up on itself like an accordion when it wasn't being used. Killian waited patiently. Though they had both grown more comfortable with Killian changing in the open room, Emma had not yet ventured to do so, and Killian wasn't going to suggest she do so. He'd meant what he said. He had no demands or expectations of Emma. Hopes, to be sure, but those were a different thing altogether. If all Emma could ever offer him was friendship, if he was lucky enough to secure that, then he would learn to be content with that. As long as she was happy, nothing else mattered.

"Killian?" Emma called out from behind the partition.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you." She emerged from behind the partition, clad in the trousers and tunic. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed in anticipation, and she'd plaited her hair back. It was the first effort to dress her hair that she had made since the wedding. It was a promising sign, he decided.

He smiled, taking in her appearance with worshipful eyes. She was beautiful, and she looked more Emma-like than he'd seen her in months. Killian swallowed, wanting very badly to compliment her appearance. Knowing how poorly it might be received, however, and not wishing to give the mistaken impression that he did have expectations of her, he responded instead by picking up her cloak from where she had discarded it. "Let's go for that walk, love."

* * *

Killian shifted restlessly, caught in the twilit realm between sleep and wakefulness, trying to drown out the sounds that were disturbing his sleep. Disjointed words and muffled cries nagged at him, dragging him out of his slumber by inches, until at last his consciousness had to respond. He opened his eyes, lids yet heavy with sleep, and tried to sort out what had woken him. The bed shook with movement, and Killian heard a whimper.

"Emma?" He reached over to the bedside table and lit the lamp. Light flared to life, illuminating the pitch black room. Emma thrashed in the bed next to him, tears running down her cheeks in her sleep. Killian felt his heart break for her. He sat up quickly, reaching over to shake her. "Emma. Emma, it's Killian. Wake up."

"No," she whimpered, pushing back against him.

"Emma, please," he begged, shaking her again. "Wake up, darling."

She shrank away from his touch with a sharp, wordless cry.

"Please," he tried again, reaching for her. "_Please_, sweetheart. Wake up."

"No, stop," she moaned, struggling away from his touch.

Killian scooped her into his arms, determined. "Emma," he said loudly, "wake up!"

Her eyes flew open, wild with terror. She seized up in his arms, and her breathing became ragged, uneven. "GET OFF ME!" she shouted in his face, no hint of recognition in her eyes. "DON'T TOUCH ME!" Her hands flew up and she shoved him with enormous force, loosening his hold on her waist. "GET OFF!"

"Ungh!" A sharp blow to his left eye surprised him, and he fell back, clutching the side of his face. He cursed, a long string of obscene words he'd absorbed during his years of sailing, but rarely used. "Gods, Emma! If this is how you treat prospective friends, I think I'd rather be your enemy!"

It seemed to snap Emma out of her stupor.

"K-Killian?" she breathed, staring at him with a different sort of horror. "Oh, gods," she panicked, her voice vibrating with sorrow. "Oh no. I-I hurt you." She scooted closer to where he lay, propped up on one elbow. "I'm so sorry, Killian. I'm so sorry," she babbled. "I was dreaming, I didn't know-"

He huffed a breath. "I gathered that the first few times I tried to wake you."

Emma flinched, and a guilty look washed over face. "Is it bad?" She scrutinized him, cool fingers probing his skin with gentleness. Killian had dreamt of just this sort of touch from Emma for years-but under vastly different circumstances. He winced, hissing softly as her fingers made contact with the injury. "Easy, lass. It's quite tender."

"We need to put something on it," she fretted.

"It's the middle of the night, love."

"That doesn't mean we should just leave it to swell shut," she argued.

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

Emma glanced toward the window, looking thoughtful. "Give me a minute." She disentangled herself from the sheets and walked over to the door that led out to their private balcony. Emma disappeared into the cold, snow swirling around her, heedless of the fact that she wore no cloak or slippers.

She returned a moment later, her expression triumphant, holding a handful of snow. Rummaging in her belongings, she procured a handkerchief and bundled the snow inside of it. "Put this on your eye," she instructed. "It will keep the swelling down." She frowned at him. "And sit up for a while. Lying down won't do you any favors."

Killian obeyed, and Emma reached behind him, propping up his pillows to make a cushion for his back. He settled against the softness. "How long have you been having nightmares?" he asked after a while, feeling the need to fill the awkward silence.

"I don't know," she answered. "Since Neal, I guess. They come and go. Sometimes they're so vivid, it's like I'm there all over again. Other times, I wake up, covered in sweat, and there's nothing but this lingering feeling of fear and uneasiness. I-sometimes I vomit."

He gave her a pained look.

"I did-I did that night," she whispered almost inaudibly.

Killian couldn't believe his ears. It was the first time she'd spoken about Neal to him, perhaps to anyone since the incident."

"I can't-I still have trouble getting warm. Getting clean enough. I feel-I feel-" Her chin wobbled, lips pressing together firmly. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she began to sob brokenly.

Killian laid the bundle of ice down, arm aching to hold her, to give comfort, but afraid to overstep his bounds, to compound her trauma. "Emma," he croaked, feeling powerless and worse than useless, "I don't know how to help. Should I get Ariel?"

She didn't hear him. He wasn't surprised. He watched helplessly as her chest heaved, and her lungs made an awful stuttering sound, over and over, as if she couldn't breathe. Killian's heart thumped violently with fright, and he reached out for Emma without thinking. "Emma," he whispered, resting his hand on her back. "Emma, Neal's gone. He can't hurt you now." The crying increased, her hyperventilation growing worse at the sound of his name. Killian cursed to himself. He had no bloody idea what he was doing. He was only making it worse. "I'm sorry," he apologized, hating himself, "I don't know what to do."

"Whuh-whuh-why?" It took a moment for Killian to understand what she'd said, much less what she meant. When her meaning hit him, rage coursed through him. "Whuh-_why_?"

Killian struggled to answer her, to respond in a way that wouldn't hurt her further. Revealing to her the depth of his anger and hatred toward Neal wouldn't help either of them. Empty words of comfort wouldn't help either, even if he could scrape any together. It would be insulting, even. Things weren't all right. They wouldn't be all right. Not tonight. Not for some time to come. And certainly not until Neal was apprehended and dealt with.

"I don't know," he answered. "I don't know why."

"Muh-my fault."

"_No_!" he said sharply. "No, it's not your fault, it's Neal's. You didn't do anything wrong, darling. You didn't do anything wrong." She curled into him without warning, head cradled against his chest, tears soaking the skin on his bare chest as she clung to him. Killian wrapped his arms around her, too disturbed and worried to feel any pleasure from her closeness. "You didn't deserve it, Emma," he insisted with all the firmness he could muster, stroking her hair. "No lass deserves to be taken unwillingly. You're not at fault."

She didn't respond to his words. Killian wasn't even certain whether she had heard them. But she didn't stir, so he held her close, waiting until she signaled otherwise, fingers dragging through her hair absently. Killian didn't know how long they sat there, Emma huddled against him, but gradually her sobs softened into whimpers, punctuated with a lot of sniffling. And when she quieted at last, they sat there longer still, neither of them speaking, until Emma's eyes grew heavy and she drifted off to sleep.

Killian leaned over and snuffed the lamp, trying to disturb Emma as little as possible. The room plunged into darkness again, but it was no longer pitch black. The greyness of approaching dawn filtered into the room from the windows, and Killian slid down in the bed a little, reclining to a more comfortable position. Pressing a kiss to the top of Emma's head, he closed his eyes, drifting into sleep again, his arms still curled around Emma.

It was the first time he'd ever held her. The first time she had ever sought his touch on her own. And it would be the last time they touched each other so intimately for months.

* * *

**A/N: Well, there it is. That's what Emma and Killian are dealing with. I'm sure some of you are in shock, but I feel the need to point out that I dropped hints in chapters two and three, so this has been a planned part of the story since before I sat down to start writing it. If you go back and re-read those chapters, I think some things will make more sense and take on a new light in regards to things Emma and Killian both do and say. **

**And now that all of this is out in the open, you understand, I'm sure, why this could not ever have been a oneshot, once Emma's backstory took a darker turn in the plotting and planning stage of my fic. This is going to be a long fic, and the relationship a painstakingly slow build between them-at least if I manage to do the story and this issue any justice at all. I hope that you will stick around for the long haul, like Killian, but it will be a very bumpy ride. The one thing I can promise, though, is that no matter how rough things get, Emma and Killian will get a happy ending with each other. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I just want to start out by saying thank you so, so much for all of your comments, reviews, follows, and favorites for this fic! It has been overwhelming, and it still doesn't seem real to me. I'm honestly rather nervous that I won't be able to perform up to such high expectations, but I'll do my best. **

**Before we get into this chapter, I wanted to address a few things that came up in the reviews. I felt like some of them were worth clearing up or mentioning in regard to this fic, so bear with me a few moments, if you will. **

_**Ni Castle**_** wanted to know how Neal managed to rape Emma, being that she is a Princess living in a palace full of other people. Well, the short answer is that Emma knew Neal, and she trusted him. Most people aren't raped by strangers in real life, but by people they know. That holds true in this fic as well.**

_**Horsecrazy141**_** wondered why Eric seemed to know about the rape. Eric and Killian are old buddies from their days in the King's navy, and since Killian and Emma are honeymooning at the Westensees, that seemed like the sort of information that their hosts might need to know. Otherwise, they might inadvertently do any number of things to trigger Emma without even knowing it. If you'll notice, Eric makes a point to never touch Emma, never even offering her a handshake when they meet. Honeymooning at the Westensees affords Emma and Killian some privacy to adjust to their new situation, away from court gossips, and the Westensees could really muck that up without meaning to, if they were ignorant of everything. **

_**Ravengirl07**_** wanted to know how and why Killian, someone so much below her in station, ended up married to Emma, apart from Emma needing to get married because of the baby. To which I can only say that there is an explanation, but it requires a conversation between Liam and Killian to uncover all of that, and that can't happen for the time being, seeing as they are still at the Westensees. It will come out sometime after they return home, but not I'm not certain of the exact chapter, yet.**

**With all of that being said, I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and that you enjoy it. :)**

* * *

Emma awakened gradually, by shades, her consciousness sliding into awareness with all the gentleness of a mother kissing her newborn babe. Swaddled snugly in pleasant dreams of innocent, youthful days long past, just moments before, she burrowed deeper into the warmth that surrounded her, unwilling to open her eyes. She hadn't felt this safe or comfortable or warm-or _rested_, even-for ages. She wasn't about to give it up. Her parents could survive a morning without her, surely. And her stuffy old tutors would just have to reschedule for tomorrow afternoon. Emma wasn't about to give up her daily ride just because she chose to sleep through her normal time slot in the schedule this morning. Her parents probably wouldn't be thrilled with that part, but damn it, she was a princess. Surely that ought to come with a few perks once in a while, shouldn't it? It wasn't as if she made a habit of this. Her parents wouldn't have stood for it anyway.

Sighing in utter contentment, she shifted in the bed, rolling onto her other side. Her nose slid against something smooth and gently coarse, a ticklish sensation niggling at her. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose blindly, the pleasant scent of salt and rain and something else, something unique, something unmistakably male and-

Her eyes shot open. A wall of dark chest hair greeted her, rising and falling in a gentle motion, like waves lapping the shoreline. Panic seized her when she realized that not only was a man in bed next to her, but that that same man had an arm slung possessively over her waist, chaining her to the spot where she lay. The urge to shove him away was overwhelming, but something, she didn't even understand what, whispered not to act rashly, reminded her muddled thoughts that this was Killian, her husband.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on nothing more than the simple but very difficult task of breathing in and breathing out at a steady pace. Her heart beat slowed after a time, and Emma opened her eyes again, considering how best to extricate herself without disturbing him. She winced as she spied his injured eye, purplish-black in the sunlight that filtered through the gauzy curtains of their chamber. Her attempt to ease its swelling appeared to have done little good, for even in his slumbering state, she could see how puffy it was. All her fault. Doubly so, since he might have kept the snow on it longer if she hadn't broken down sobbing.

Emma felt mortified at baring herself to him, all the brokenness and vulnerability, the very dirtiness of her soul. Nausea, which she knew in her bones had nothing to do with the baby, washed over her. That she had sought his comfort at all scared her. That she had sought it so _instinctively_ plain disturbed her. Had she no more defenses against him now than during her foolish lovesick delusions of the past? It was his kindness, the genuineness in him that had disarmed her, yes, but it was _she_ who had opened wide the gate last night and let him in to console her. Now Emma didn't know what to do. If he honestly hadn't had any expectations of her before, surely he would _now_...

Killian sighed in his sleep, and Emma softened toward him, taking in the gentleness of his face. He stirred a little, and she braced herself, expecting him to awaken. But he shifted closer to her instead, breath warming her forehead as he mumbled nonsense. Most of it was incoherent, but she recognized the syllables of her own name well enough, garbled though they were. She stiffened as panic seized her again, breaths becoming short and quick. Bracing herself with one hand flat against the bed, Emma shimmied her way out of his grasp with painstaking slowness. His hand fell, flopping back onto the sheets, and he slumbered on, undisturbed.

Relieved, she eased herself out of the bed and tiptoed toward the dresser she was using during their stay at the Westensees. Opening the top drawer quite slowly, so it wouldn't creak, she collected fresh under things and shut the drawer with exquisite care. The next drawer revealed the clothes Killian had gifted to her yesterday, and her hand froze just before her fingertips touched the soft material of the tunic. She threw a hesitant glance over her shoulder toward the slumbering Killian. Had his kindness and goodwill all been a ruse? His statements about having no expectations of her, a clever lie? Were the clothes but something to bribe her with, to gain her trust?

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Emma closed the drawer with shaking hands. With a blindness born out of fear and sorrow, she plucked a dress out of the third drawer, uncaring of which it was. It could be sackcloth for all she cared. Surely she deserved a dress of sackcloth anyway.

Emma ducked behind the collapsible wooden partition and dressed quickly. Rescuing her cloak from a brass peg near the door, she settled it about her shoulders and turned to regard her husband. He faced away from her, the sheets twisted and tangled up in his legs, bare toes peeping out from under the edge of the blanket. Blinking several times to dispel the tears that threatened in her eyes, Emma took a deep breath. "I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you," she whispered to him. "I'm sorry."

Grasping the handle of the door in her hand, Emma twisted it and fled from the room.

* * *

Emma stared at the base of the wooden half-wall across from her. The musty smell of hay filled her nostrils, mixing with the phantom scent of horses sent out to pasture hours before. Brushing uselessly at the hay that stuck to her emerald skirts, Emma sighed. How many times had she sat on a bale of hay just like this, back in the stables at home, trying to muddle her way through the tangle of thoughts and emotions she held for Killian? She wasn't certain she could count them, even if she had an interest in trying. And though the situation, her feelings, were reversed from that of her adolescence, the resulting despondence was the same. Both situations seemed impossible, each in their own way. Young, foolish Emma couldn't have the Lieutenant she desired, couldn't wrap her arms around him and feel his warmth, hold him close in the night and make him hers forever. Adult Emma _could_, and the possibility scared her witless. If she let him in as she had Neal, if her judgment this time was as utterly wrong it had been about Neal...

Emma knew it wouldn't take much more heartache to destroy her, to raze her heart to ruins completely.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Emma looked up. Ariel stood just outside the stall, one arm wrapped around a post, peering at her with the ghost of a smile on her delicate features.

She considered the other woman for several moments, debating with herself. Ariel wasn't bad company, she'd learned, for all that the other woman had a much more traditionally feminine bent than Emma. She was nothing like the tomboyish, portal-jumping nomad, Alice-Emma's best friend since childhood. Ariel offered a quiet steadiness and dependability that Alice, as much as Emma treasured her, had never been able to, the way she roved in and out of Emma's life with cheerful unpredictability. Emma wasn't altogether certain that she didn't like it.

"Did he send you?" she finally asked.

"He did. He's very upset you know."

"I had to," she sighed. "I had to get out of there."

Ariel lifted a large basket into view. "Without food or drink first?"

Emma frowned. "I wasn't thinking."

"Good thing your husband is," she said lightly, stepping over to Emma. "Scoot over," she ordered. Emma complied, and Ariel set the basket down front of them. "That's what he's upset about, you know," she continued as she handed Emma a freshly baked currant bun. "That you left without eating, without talking to anyone first."

"Maybe," she allowed, unwilling to argue the point. She bit into the bun and chewed thoughtfully. Ariel took out her own bun and nibbled at it cautiously. Emma watched her with a frown. "How far along?"

"What?" Ariel blinked at her in confusion.

"How far along in the pregnancy are you?"

"H-how do you know?"

She shrugged. "Takes one to know one," she sighed. "But the major clues are your avoidance of alcohol and your eating habits. You look ready to pass out every time someone passes by with a platter of sausages or bacon."

"The smell sickens me," she admitted, looking faintly green just talking about it. "It was never this way with Melly. I just...I hope it's a good sign. Our last pregnancies haven't..." she trailed off, immeasurable pain reflected in her eyes. "I'm not certain how far along I am. I haven't seen a physician yet. I haven't even told _Eric_." Emma raised an eyebrow. "It...I can't do it. Not until I know for certain the baby will be all right. I can't raise his hopes only for him to be hurt again, if we lose the child."

"So you'd carry that burden of pain yourself instead? Close yourself off from him and keep that secret, suffer that pain alone for the rest of your days? Won't that hurt you both in the end, drive you apart and prevent any real healing from occurring?"

Ariel shot her a startled look. "I hadn't thought of it that way," she admitted softly. "I simply wanted to spare him the pain of another loss. We-it...it isn't easy for us to conceive to begin with. I think...I wonder...if our difficulties stem from our having such different heritages."

Emma frowned. "I don't see how."

"Well, I was a mermaid, and he is a human..."

"Not that," she waved her hand dismissively. She took another bite of the bun, strangely enjoying the sour-sweet tang of the currants. "I meant," she said, after swallowing, "that I don't see why it would have anything to do with your different heritages. You have a genuine human body when you wear that bracelet, don't you?"

"I think so."

"Then I'm not sure the mermaid heritage is responsible. It might just be normal human difficulties, you know. And if that's the case, maybe there's someone out there who can do something about it."

"Maybe," Ariel nodded, a hopeful catch in her voice. She turned to Emma. "What about you?"

She blinked. "What about me?"

"You know, you and Killian." She bumped Emma pointedly with one knee. "Every bit of what you said can be applied to your own situation, you know."

Emma cursed under her breath. Ariel was right. She hadn't even realized, when she'd said them. And now she was trapped in a web of her own making. Ariel's pain might be different than her own, but it was no less real. An Emma wouldn't insult the other woman with excuses and implications that it was.

"He wants to be friends," she said instead, finishing up the last bites of her bun. The pastry had stoked the flames of Emma's appetite, and she lifted the cloth of the basket Ariel had brought, looking for more. It was the first breakfast she had had in days that had not rebelled practically the moment she swallowed it.

Ariel paused in her own meal, issuing Emma a thoughtful look. "It scares you." Her words were neither question, nor answer, but some amalgamation of the two. She reached into the basket, producing a water skin. She handed it to Emma, then retrieved one of her own. "Well," she said, when it became apparent that Emma wasn't going to respond, "what, specifically, scares you about it?"

"That it won't be enough for him. That he'll want more. He does want more. On our w-wedding night-" she fumbled over the word, uncomfortable with the associations that word evoked, "-he admitted he'd like-he'd like to-"

"Make love?" Ariel inquired gently.

"_No!_" Emma snapped. Her lip curled at the phrase. She didn't suffer any illusions about what Killian wanted. What they all wanted. Not anymore. "He wants sex." A warm, female body to ejaculate into. Love wasn't any part of the equation. It never had been, certainly not with Killian. Her foolish dreams otherwise had long since been abandoned, and their remnants shattered like the most delicate of glass. "Like all men do," she said harshly. "He even said so. That they want it."

Ariel's brows drew together, lips pressing together in a firm line. "That doesn't mean he'll force himself on you," she insisted with a firm defensiveness. "Killian isn't that type of person."

Emma winced. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't..." she trailed off, feeling as useless and inadequate as the words of her apology. "He-I don't know what to think. What if he's tricking me?"

For a moment, Ariel looked as if she might defend Killian again, but she shook her head, as if thinking better of it. "What makes you think he could?" she asked curiously. "Is it just the circumstances, or something else?"

"Both."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I don't know how he can admit he wants sex," she burst out angrily, the words tumbling out of her despite the fear that wanted nothing more than to keep them all bottled inside, "but insist that he won't _force_ the issue, all in one breath, and _then_ come back days later and claim that he wants friendship, that he has no expectations of me! That doesn't make any sense!"

"Killian is not a deceitful person, Emma," Ariel said quietly. "That is not in his nature." She frowned, chewing on her lower lip. "Wanting is not the same thing as taking. Neither is sex anything like...what you went through. And making love, that's something altogether different from them both." She shook her head. "I know those are just words to you right now, but they need to be said."

And Emma was hardly in a position to believe Killian if he said them. The words were unspoken but well understood by them both.

"You can't spend your life worrying about what Killian might or might not want in the future," Ariel said after a short silence. "Think about what _you_ want."

"I-I don't know," she admitted helplessly.

"Then maybe you need to spend some more time with Killian to figure it out," Ariel finished quietly. "Get to know him. For both your sakes."

* * *

Emma fiddled with the tail of her plait, curling the end of it around her finger absently as she chewed over Ariel's words. They had been hounding her all day, invading her thoughts and nagging at her most insistently, especially during dinner, when she had seen Killian for the first time that day. His eye looked as puffy and darkened as ever, and Emma had hardly been able to look in his direction after that, much less speak to him. She felt embarrassed that she had done that to him, that he had suffered the fallout from her own trauma when he had only been trying to help her. But more than all of that, she felt bad for leaving without a word this morning, for slipping away from the house and their hosts without even a greeting, and making him worry after her in the process. It was hardly the way to treat someone who had been a shelter for her last night, a safe haven from her nightmares.

She didn't know if she could be a friend to Killian. She had already hurt him when he had tried to be a friend to her. The thought that she might keep doing so sickened her, but she had to face the possibility. Didn't he deserve more than constant hurt and rejection? If she couldn't offer him more than that, she didn't want to be his friend.

But the only way to know what she had to offer him, small pittance though it might be at this point, was to heed Ariel's advice and spend time with him. To attempt friendship. And hope they didn't both get burned in the process.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

Emma turned toward it from where she sat on the bed, waiting for Killian. "Come in," she sighed. _Back to this again?_ she thought with a flash of annoyance. The door creaked open, and Killian poked his head through the opening, his expression uncertain.

"May I-?" he started to ask.

She rolled her eyes. "Just get in and shut the door," she shook her head. It reminded her so very much of their wedding night that she couldn't help but smile briefly. Hopefully this night would go better than that one had. "I told you. It's your room, too. You don't have to knock."

Killian closed the door behind him. "I didn't, um, know if you might be changing," he explained, scrubbing the back of his neck with one hand.

_Oh._ She flushed. "That's what the partition is for," she argued weakly.

"Even when I'm not present?"

He had her there. "I'll lock the door if that's the case," she assured him.

"Good to know."

An awkward silence descended between them. "Um, I'm sorry for this morning," Emma finally said. "I shouldn't have left without telling anyone. Or eating."

"This is the second apology I will accept from you," he told her seriously. "Please don't make a habit of my doing so, Emma. I'd rather you simply took care of yourself and the child to begin with." He crooked a smile at her. "Pouring food in through your ear is starting to sound very appealing indeed."

She laughed shortly. "So noted."

He crossed over to her and sat down on the corner of the bed opposite her. "Emma...do you want to talk about last night?"

"No," she said flatly. "I talked too much last night. I'm not...it...I'm not ready to talk any more about it, yet."

"All right." His easy acceptance surprised her, and she peered at him in suspicion. "Well, what do you take me for, love? An ogre, to beat it out of you?" He winced after the words came out of his mouth, as if realizing that the selection of his words might not have been the most tactful.

"Actually, I was thinking more like a troll."

"Troll!" he snorted. "Don't be ridiculous! I'm far too devilishly handsome for that. I at least rate as good as one of the Faerie."

"You're certainly vain enough to be one of them," she laughed. "I think Cyclops fits best right about now."

He smiled, his lone uninjured blue eye shining with sudden warmth. "Now there she is again," he murmured, "your laugh." Suddenly uncomfortable, Emma shifted away from him and stood up. "Wait," he told her, "I want to ask you something."

A fluttery feeling began in her stomach. Emma crossed her arms over her abdomen, trying to smother it. "What?"

"I promised to take Melly into town tomorrow-"

"With that eye?" she said tactlessly.

He bit his lip, as if trying to hold back laughter of his own. "Well, I hadn't planned to develop a black eye when I made promise. And I don't want to disappoint her."

"So where do I come in? Am I supposed to lead you around by the hand, acting as your eyes or something?"

"You could, love, but I was thinking more like coming with me for companionship. Or at least a change of pace from here."

She eyed him for several heartbeats. Ariel's words echoed through her head again. _Then maybe you need to spend some more time with Killian to figure it out. Get to know him. For both your sakes_. Emma frowned. "As...friends?"

"As whatever you are comfortable with," he answered. "No expectations, remember?"

Emma still wasn't sure she believed that. But there was only one way to find out if his words were genuine. "All right," she agreed, "if Melly doesn't mind."

"I'll talk to her in the morning," he agreed. "Let's turn in, love, and get some sleep."

"All right," she repeated, turning down the covers of the bed while he readied himself. She settled into the bed, pulling the blankets over her. Killian hummed slightly under his breath, the lilting, energetic notes of a sea shanty. She listened with one ear, thoughts whirling together as she wondered if it would be so bad to sleep in his arms again. Would it keep the nightmares at bay again, or had that simply been a fluke?

"Killian?" she finally asked.

"Hmm?" he responded absently, turning off the bedside lamp. The room descended into darkness, and Emma stiffened for a moment, the memories of her nightmare rising to the forefront of her mind. Swallowing thickly, she felt the bed shift as he climbed into it.

"Nothing," she finally said, relaxing as the feeling of his presence on the other side of the bed soaked into her. "Good night."

"Good night, Emma."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: One of my readers brought up a point regarding Charming's background during a review, and I thought it was well worth mentioning, although it will come up later in the story anyway.**

**Naiariddle said: "****sometimes i feet that maybe emma felt hurt with her parents because she only could marry killian because she was raped, she is less worthy even if we know she loved killian. even if i think that her parent would had understand (had snow and david the same backstory?)"**

**That's a really, really good point, because things **_**don't**_** make sense at all if David has the same background that he does on the show. And Emma **_**would**_** be hurt at her parents' hypocrisy.**

**But for the purposes of this fic, David never grew up as a shepherd. He and James came from a noble bloodline on friendly terms with the King, so when their parents died, George adopted them and made them his heirs. Charming is still Charming in terms of personality, but his experience are a bit different. **

**And yes, James will make an appearance or two in this fic. How can he not?**

**Hope this helps clear up any confusion! Enjoy the chapter! It's a long one, but I think you'll rather enjoy it.**

**Trigger warnings: rape, non con situations, mild violence**

* * *

_The ballroom was quite hot, born from a combination of the many bright chandeliers lit overhead and the crush of bodies that swarmed around him, their words a dull buzz in his ears. Killian craned his neck a little, trying to see over the tops of people's heads. It wouldn't do to stand on his toes, but he was quite tempted, if it would help him find her. He hadn't seen her in months, not in person; but she had haunted his dreams like a specter when he slept, and invaded his thoughts like a bloody siren while he worked. Liam had remarked on his distraction, the slight but noticeable decline in the quality of his work, and the faint circles that limned his eyes after a few weeks. Killian threw everything he had into his work after that, as if by running himself ragged he might forget her, as if by exhausting himself, he might slumber so deeply, she left his dreams._

_But Emma never did._

_A flash of golden curls caught his eye to the left, and his breath caught in his throat. He knew it was her, even before she approached him. Killian had long memorized the feel of her presence, the silent hum of energy that signified _Emma_, when she was present. He clasped his hands together behind his back, assuming the bearing proper to a military office; it soothed his nerves a bit, helped him to focus the scattered pieces of his mind. How did she manage to do it, to shatter his self-control and make him feel as he were nothing more than an awkward boy again?_

_Killian bit his lower lip, his control wavering again as he watched the princess approach, the crowd parting to let her through. She was a vision, like something right out of the itself. Her dress was the color of sea foam, with gauzy, flowing sleeves and a square cut neckline that suggested, rather than displayed, the lovely breasts he was certain lay hidden underneath her bodice. A tiara studded with aquamarines and diamonds glittered from where it was nestled in her golden hair. "Lieutenant Jones," she greeted him with a smile, "you've returned safely, I see."_

_"I have," he agreed, when he recovered the power of speech. He lifted a gloved hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "And in time for another celebration, I see."_

_"Indeed," she beamed at him, "how fortuitous." Her green eyes twinkled. "Perhaps you would do me the honor of a dance, then, Lieutenant? Since we are both stuck here, whether we will it or not."_

_"The honor would be mine, princess," he told her sincerely. Killian matched her graceful curtsy with a bow, and he slipped a hand around her waist. The silken fabric of her dress felt soft and smooth underneath his coarse, calloused sailor's hands. It was a stark reminder of the difference in their station, of the fact that he was not nearly good enough for her, could not give her the sort of life that she deserved. _

_He swallowed thickly as she threaded her gloved fingers through his own bare ones, gazing up at him becomingly from beneath her golden-brown lashes. The fact that fate had cruelly dealt them such different futures stung his soul, but for tonight, it mattered not. He lead her onto the dance floor, memorizing every detail of her appearance, her smell, even the way she felt beneath his hands as he held her close. For these few precious moments, at least, she was his._

_They moved as one heartbeat while they danced, or perhaps it was simply his own fevered imagination. But though they moved as one couple among dozens in the ballroom, so far as Killian was concerned, it was only the two of them. Every person, every thing faded into insignificance while he held her. And soon, as he twirled her with the utmost care during the midst of their dance, they were as the only two people left on the whole of the earth._

_"I trust your journey was uneventful and your mission for my parents successful?" Emma inquired after a time._

_"Aye," he answered, admiring the golden curls that spilled across her shoulders. "And was your birthday celebration all that you hoped that it would be, princess?"_

_She smiled softly, a flicker of sadness in her green eyes. "No."_

_"And why is that, princess?"_

_"Because," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her fingers threaded through his hair, and he shivered as she pressed a kiss to his lips. "You weren't there."_

_The warm softness of her lips burned against his, setting him aflame. The hunger for her, his princess, his lovely Emma, that had always simmered beneath the surface, so carefully concealed, boiled over with ferocity, like an overheated cauldron. Killian pressed his body flush with hers, the length of his hardness compressing against her intimately, seeking by instinct the sweetness it sensed was ripe for the taking._

_The ballroom melted away in a blur, and the next thing Killian knew, he and the princess were both naked atop an ornately carved bed, locked together in a passionate tangle of arms and legs, as they moved together in a dance as old as time itself. "Emma," he murmured feverishly, entering her with every bit of gentleness and care as he could muster, as if she were made of fine glass or porcelain. "Emma," he repeated, nuzzling his head into the curve of her neck. He cradled her in his arms and started to move, slipping in and out of her in a slow, steady rhythm. She cried out in a loud, unrestrained voice, and the speed of his thrusting increased. Months, he'd waited to see her again; _years _he'd craved this, fantasized about lying with her-_

_A whimper interrupted his thoughts._

_"Emma?" Killian peered down at her with concern. "What's wrong?"_

_"Why?" she choked out, tears leaking down her reddened cheeks. "Why did you hurt me?"_

_Killian sat up swiftly. "You're hurt?" he managed in a shaky voice. He rolled off of her. "Where, love? Tell me?" He scanned her body for any sign of injury, and suddenly it wasn't Emma who lay next to him, but a shell of her spirited self. Bruises bloomed on her thighs right before his eyes, and he froze, unable to process the sight of them. Scarlet leaked onto the pristine white sheets, forever tainting them. He drew back with horror, running a hand through his hair. Had he done that to her?_

_"Why?" she croaked, trying to gather the shreds of her bloodstained gown to cover her lower half. Fear and loathing shone from her eyes like an ugly beacon. "I trusted you." Her expression was anguished, her accusation saturated with hurt and betrayal._

_"I-don't know," he whispered. "I didn't mean to. I-I wanted you, but not like this."_

_"Liar," she spat softly. "You're just like Neal."_

_"I'm nothing like Neal!" he shouted at her, punching the mattress in frustration. "_You_ kissed me, told me you missed me-"_

_"Miss you?" she fired back. "Why would I ever miss _you_, a lowly, good-for-nothing lieutenant in my father's navy? You're not even worthy of that rank, you traitor! You said there were no expectations, that I could _trust_ you!"_

_"Emma," he begged, "Emma, please. I didn't mean to! I didn't know. I thought you wanted me, I thought-"_

_"I have _never_ wanted you! _Never!_"_

_"All right," he said, defeated. "All right. I'm-I'm sorry. I-you're right. I shouldn't have-" He swallowed, struggling not to fall to pieces before her. He took a deep breath. "Can you forgive me for my sins?" Cold, hard green eyes stared up at him with loathing. "Emma?" he tried brokenly, "Emma, please!"_

_Snarling, she placed her hands around his throat and squeezed._

Killian awoke with a start, sitting up in the bed, a pillow clutched between his arms. He patted his throat with one hand, breathing heavily. It was a dream? Killian would have laughed in relief if the backwash of his terror wasn't still hitting him so hard. He shuddered.

"Killian?" Emma's muzzy voice said.

He turned to look at her, biting his lower lip as he hardened again at the mere sound of her voice. Shit. He wasn't surprised, after the dream he had had. It wasn't his body's fault that it was particularly sensitive to suggestion right now. And her sleep-thickened, throaty voice was apparently quite suggestive to his nether regions.

It was damned inconvenient, though.

"Yes?" he managed, thankful that the pillow he still held in one arm hid the telltale bulge of his inopportune arousal from her view. He knew it was a circumstance they were bound to confront at one point or another. Morning arousal wasn't uncommon, after all. Sooner or later, they would be forced to deal with that reality, along with whatever awkwardness and negative feelings it would likely provoke in Emma. But Killian was certainly not prepared to deal with that particular hurdle _this_ morning.

"What's wrong?" Emma sat up, blinking at him, her expression puzzled. Her blonde hair was a messy halo around her face, portions of it having escaped the confines of the braid she usually wore at night. His breath caught in his throat, strongly reminded of the many times he had seen her hair in just such attractive disarray after her morning ride. But it was her nightgown, the neckline of which hung open on one side, revealing a generous portion of her cleavage, the ties having loosened and unknotted in her sleep, which gave him the most trouble. He shifted restlessly, feeling his face grow hot and his groin grow even harder. Painfully so. Damn it.

"Nothing."

"Didn't sound like nothing," she argued.

He eyed her sidelong, careful not to let his gaze fall below her chin. "Emma," he said, hating the strangled sound of his own voice, "gown." She blinked at him in confusion. "It's open," he said huskily.

"Oh!" she said with embarrassment. He waited a few moments while she set herself to rights again. "Sorry."

Killian didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He wasn't sorry in the least. But he couldn't exactly tell _her_ that. She was already suspicious of his intentions, and he didn't want her to feel pressured. If she felt threatened enough to shut him out completely-

A sick feeling swept through him at the thought. He couldn't-wouldn't-let his own desires frighten her away. His mind flashed to the nightmare, and he flinched inwardly. Her friend. He needed to be her friend, someone she could trust. If she didn't ever want anything more than that, he would learn to cope as he had at sea, haunted by his thoughts of her; relieving his desires himself, while a lot less satisfactory, would have to be adequate. Anything to prevent himself from ever hurting her. Killian could not bear it, could not live with himself, if he ever did that.

He scrubbed at the nape of his neck with one hand, considering his current predicament. Killian had known, going into this arrangement, that it was never going to be easy; that he might never win Emma's trust or friendship, much less her love. But he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. If only-

"You always do that when you're nervous or embarrassed," her voice broke into his thoughts.

Killian blinked, gaze swinging over to her again. "I what?" He blinked in confusion.

"Rub the back of your neck or scratch behind your ear." Killian stared at her. A warm feeling swept through him and settled in his chest. It felt an awful lot like hope. "It's, um-it's something I've noticed," she finished.

"Ah." He licked his lips, unable to suppress the surge of disappointment that he felt ripple through him. It made sense, he reasoned. They were married now, and regardless of their relationship as it was at present, or what it might be in the future, they were bound to pick up on each other's idiosyncrasies, simply from living in such close quarters together. How foolish to let himself hope, even for just a moment.

"So-it was pretty bad?" He frowned. "Your nightmare?" she clarified.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Killian couldn't tell her everything, even if wanted to. Still, they were talking. It was something that she was asking, wasn't it? That she wanted to know what was bothering him? He could not simply brush her off, when she was making a move, however tentative, toward friendship with him, toward some manner of intimacy between them.

Nor did he want to.

"Aye," he nodded. "I was-at a ball."

She snorted in amusement, her cheeks flushing pale pink, and her green eyes shining like emeralds. Killian's fingers twitched, the urge to tangle his fingers through her hair and kiss her until they both saw stars nearly irresistible. "Well, I can see how that might make you scream in terror," she snickered. "Seeing how you adore them as much as I do."

Killian blinked at her, chewing on his lower lip in confusion. She remembered?

"Still," she continued, "that can't be the whole of it."

"No," he agreed.

Emma tilted her head, studying him with a keen gaze. "And that's all you're going to say," she nodded to herself.

"Yes."

"All right," she answered with an easy acceptance that surprised him. He stared at her. Emma smiled bitterly. "I'm hardly the one to push someone to talk about things they're not ready to address yet," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.

Killian flinched. Had he been pushing her too hard? "Emma-"

She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. "We're fine," she told him with a shortness of temper that was only softened by the half-hearted smile she flashed him over her shoulder. "Come on. We have a little girl we don't want to disappoint."

* * *

They left after breakfast, snow falling softly on the bare winter landscape as they piled into the carriage. Melly sprang in first, dark curls bouncing on her shoulders, and tucked herself into a corner of the carriage with an excited gleam in her eyes. Killian listened to her stutter and babble with enthusiasm from within, smiling with amusement. He looked over at Emma and offered her a hand to help her into the carriage. She slipped her hand into his, hitching her skirts up slightly as she climbed into the vehicle. She settled on the seat opposite of Melly. Killian followed after, sitting down next to Melly, who wasted no time in worming her way under his arm and regaling him with all the places she wanted to see once they reached town. He smiled down at her fondly, interjecting a comment now and then when she paused to take a breath, and chuckled to himself at her enthusiasm.

He glanced over at Emma, wondering what their child would be like. Would it be a girl like Melly, whom he could dance with and play tea time, or would she take after her mother and prefer archery and fencing and horseback riding? And what about a boy, to make mud pies with and track dirt into the palace, earning a sound scolding from Emma and the palace staff? Killian could teach him all about sailing, and perhaps one day see him enlist for service himself.

But no, that wouldn't happen, he realized with a frown. A crown prince would never be allowed to take up a profession that would unnecessarily endanger his life. A younger son, perhaps, might be given permission, but-

There might never be further children. It was a hurtful reality; one that was almost too harsh to face.

Killian's heart ached as he remembered his dream from this morning. So many times his slumbering mind had resolved Killian's return from those long three months at sea, after Emma's eighteenth birthday, with one happy ending or another; they were a sweet torture that Killian wasn't certain he would give up, even if he were offered the chance. Yet reality had invaded his dreams with a vengeance this morning, marring them with all of his deepest fears: that he might fail Emma, never give her the happy ending she deserved; that his desire for her might lead him to hurt her, make her hate him-

"Killian?" A light touch on his arm startled him from his thoughts. Emma sat back against her seat with a blink of her green eyes. "We're here." She watched him with a curious gaze, but made no effort to pry into his thoughts. Killian appreciated that more than she would ever know.

The door of the carriage opened, and the footman stood at attention outside, waiting to help them out. Killian waved him away after he exited-something that was fast becoming a habit-and extended his hand to help Emma out of the carriage. She shook her head with a smile and jerked her head toward Melly, who was bouncing up and down on the cushioned seats of the carriage. Killian grinned. "Melly, my dear, you're going to wear out the cushions," he told her with a chuckle. He swung her out of the carriage rather than offer his hand, and she giggled.

"The toy shop!" she cried, hopping up and down on her feet, clutching at his coat imploringly. "Let's go to the toy shop!" She tugged on his arm as if to drag him away that very minute.

"Best to ask Aunt Emma what she thinks of the notion," he smiled down at her. "Perhaps she'd rather take you down to the marina and toss you in for forgetting your manners. Demands and impatience won't get you far, I'm afraid."

A snort issued from inside the carriage. Killian looked over his shoulder with a grin, and pivoted around to help Emma out of the vehicle. "So I'm the villain in all of this?" Her expression was grim, but her green eyes sparkled with mirth. "Is that how this is going to be?"

"Why, whatever do you mean, love?" He asked with a careful arch of his brow. Though his manner was light, every nerve was humming with optimism at the reference, however vague, to the child they would raise together.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words never left her mouth. Melly hurled herself at Emma's gold skirts instead, alternately apologizing and imploring her to come to the toy shop. "Please?" Melly said, tugging on Emma's hand. "_Please_, auntie Emma?"

Emma stared down at Melly with a stunned expression. "I-I-" she floundered. She looked up, and her green eyes met Killian's. He nodded at her in encouragement. "Of course we can," she recovered with a crooked smile, "since you asked so nicely."

Melly beamed in response, and Killian sauntered over to them. "Ladies," he said with an exaggerated bow, "allow me the honor of escorting you to your destination?" Emma rolled her eyes in exasperation, shaking her head, but Melly giggled and clasped her hand tightly in his own. "Well, love?" Killian inquired with a smile, offering his other arm to his wife. She wound her arm around his without a word, and they set off through the town together, Melly amusing them with her chatter the entire way.

* * *

Mercer's Toy Shop was small, and decorated in hues of red and gold, trimmed with cream. Yet somehow, despite its diminutive size compared to many of the other stores that lined the main avenue of town, it managed to feel spacious than it actually was, despite the toys that crowded its shelves. Melly pounced on the wares displayed, moving from one item to another without hardly a pause, her hand wringing Killian's almost painfully in her excitement. "Easy, dearest," he told her with a chuckle, pulling his hand free. He shook it, trying to return sensation to it. "We've all day in town. No need to rush."

Selecting a stuffed grey bear off a shelf, Melly examined it for a moment, then placed it back in its proper spot. "I want to look at the dolls," she decided.

"At the rear of the store," the shop owner said helpfully, walking past on his way to retrieve an item for another small customer. "Let me know if I can help you find something in particular."

Killian followed Melly to the back of the store, where he was surprised to see Emma standing in a corner along the opposite wall, staring in fierce concentration at the toys on the shelves before her. She ran a finger across one of the toys; it was a ship carved out of burnished cherry, with crisp little sails made from linen, and handful of faceless carved figures that Killian surmised was its crew. He smiled to himself, tempted to purchase it for their own child, but Emma's reaction was not at all the same. Her forehead creased, and her shoulders bowed forward a fraction, atrophying into a minute slump. Killian observed her, growing worried, as she bit down on her lower lip to stop its trembling.

"Melly, dear," Killian said, turning away after watching his wife struggle in silence for a few minutes. It burned him, the inability to go over and comfort her. Yet there was no question that his duty was to Melly at the moment; she was simply too young to be left to her own devices, even for a few moments. If she were older, things would be quite different. But the fact remained that she wasn't.

He knelt down beside his goddaughter. "Which doll have you decided your mum can yell at me about purchasing you, then?"

The little girl shifted her gaze from a brunette doll with a mass of coiled black curls and a soft pink frock, to a doll with wavy red hair, large blue-green eyes, and a white calico print frock. "This one!" Melly decided after several minutes of indecision. She pointed to the red-haired doll. "It looks like mommy!"

"Clever girl," he grinned, patting her on the head with affection. "It would be terribly bad form for your mum to get mad at us when we were simply so heartsick for her company that we had to purchase a doll similar in appearance in order to cope."

A loud snort sounded from behind him. Killian peered over his shoulder. "Emma," he breathed, relieved to see that she appeared to be in better spirits.

"Do you really think that's going to get you out of trouble with Ariel?" she asked with a sardonic smile.

"Perhaps," he smiled. "For the doll, anyway."

Killian paid for Melly's new toy, arranging to have it delivered to the Westensee residence the next day, and the three of them left the shop a short time afterward. "Everything all right?" he murmured in Emma's ear as they meandered down the street to their next destination. "You seemed upset, back in the store."

She blinked at him in surprise, but Killian noted that she did not deny his observation. They walked next to each other in silence for a while, Melly being too preoccupied with the gentle snow falling around them to talk very much. Killian more or less forgot about it, assuming from her silence that she did not care to speak about it. So it was something of a surprise to him when Emma suddenly blurted out, "I was-I was thinking of the past."

Killian eyed her sidelong. "What of it?" he inquired gently. He guided Melly around a patch of slippery ice.

"Just...wishing things could have been different," she sighed. "I mean, if I had made different choices, would-would I be where I'm at now?"

He caught her meaning immediately. "I don't know, love," he answered quietly. "Perhaps not. But Emma, you speak of the past as if you had any control over what happened. As if you are responsible." He locked gazes with her for a moment. "I'll say it again, love: you're not."

She flushed, and her expression became vaguely uncomfortable. Even embarrassed. It was the first time either of them had dared reference her breakdown in his arms. Truth be told, Killian hadn't even intended to do so. But the words had tumbled out of his mouth with heartfelt sincerity just the same.

Emma looked away.

"I have my own regrets, love," he said, thinking in particular of all the times he might have taken a chance, told her how he felt...perhaps even prevented her tragedy. "Some of them rather large ones." Emma glanced at him curiously. "But whether it would have changed anything or not, lass, it does neither of us any good to let ourselves be consumed with guilt over tings we cannot go back and change; our decisions were made to the best of our knowledge and ability, under entirely different circumstances than now. Looking at the past through the lens of the present does little good when it comes to regrets."

"Like a magnifying glass?" Melly piped up.

Killian and Emma smiled at each other in amusement over her dark head. "Aye, lass," he agreed. "Just like a magnifying glass-finding a surface to be coarse where you once knew it to be smooth."

* * *

They visited quite a number of shops that morning, shamelessly spoiling Melly as they visited the clothier, the sweet shop, the book shop, and half a dozen other places besides. Killian was so exhausted from all the walking that he almost couldn't muster the energy to move again after they finished their lunch at the bakery. "Emma, love," he said slowly, watching her demolish her third chocolate éclair while Melly nibbled at her own desert, a small sticky bun with a cinnamon glaze, "why don't you rest here for a bit, while I take Melly over to the barber, as Ariel requested?"

"I'm fine," she protested.

He shot her a wry look. "Emma," he said in a low tone, leaning closer to her so Melly wouldn't overhear, "I'm almost dead on my own feet right now. You are carrying a child. You need to rest. I won't have you pushing yourself to the point of nearly passing out, again."

"All right," she grumbled, "fine. But we should head back when you're finished. The snow is starting to come down harder, and I don't want to be stuck in town overnight because the roads are too dangerous for travelling."

"Yes, love," he winked at her. "We'll be as quick as we can. I promise."

He set off for the nearby barber shop a short time later, with Melly in tow, carefully picking their way around the slippery patches of ice. His goddaughter hardly said a word the entire time, preferring to sulk instead. Ariel had warned him that her daughter loathed haircuts and was likely to put up a fuss, but that she drew the line at having her child resemble their sheepdog, Max. So off with her hair it was. At least some of it.

"Here, now, Melly," he tried to calm her when the barber walked toward her with a pair of scissors. She shrieked and tried to leap from the chair, but Killian gently pushed her back against the chair. "Be a good girl, dearest, and let this poor man trim your hair. There's nothing to be afraid of, sweetest. Really."

She eyed with heavy suspicion, and he sighed.

"Excuse me," he told the barber, plopping into a chair, "do you mind one more?" He gestured toward his own hair. "To show the lass there's nothing to be frightened of."

The elderly gentleman shrugged. "If you got the coin," he wheezed, "I got the time."

Killian chuckled. Succinct and quite mercenary, to boot. He decided that he rather liked the old man. Particularly since he didn't seem to give one fig or another _who_ Killian was, which allowed him to truly relax for the first time since they had departed from the Westensees that morning. "I think I can spare a bit more," he shot back dryly.

The barber grinned, revealing a mouth that was more gums than teeth. "Her Highness chose well," he muttered with approval. Killian flushed a little, wondering at the remark, but unwilling to inquire about it further. Placing a cloth around Killian's neck, the barber eyed him critically. "How much?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How much hair do you want trimmed?" He sized Killian up again. "You'd look a damned sight more authoritative without that ridiculous queue of hair."

Killian's hand flew to the familiar tail of his dark hair. "What, cut it all off?" he said in a shocked voice.

"Are you scared, Uncle Killy?" Melly asked with a tremble in her voice. A small hand reached over and patted him on the shoulder. "Me too."

Defeated by a four year old. He ground his teeth together, and the barber smirked. "All right," he sighed. "Cut it all off."

The barber cut and trimmed Killian's hair out over the course of several minutes, frowning every now and then as he reached forward to even out a lock of hair. Killian sat very still during the entire ordeal, hyper alert to Melly's wide, watchful gaze, and wondered what Emma would say when they returned. Would she be angry, or would she even care?

"Your face could do with a shave, too," the barber said after he finished Killian's hair.

"Strangely enough, I can't afford a shave," Killian told him brightly, patting the scruff that covered his face. "Just the two haircuts."

The barber laughed. "You're going to do just fine," he decided cryptically, patting Killian on the shoulder. "But a trim is in order, just the same. You're looking a bit ragged." He winked, grinning at Killian. "On the house."

Killian groaned, but he submitted to the barber. And left a large tip for him when they paid.

* * *

The silence in the carriage was deafening. Or so it seemed to Killian. Emma had hardly said a word to him at all, after they had returned to the bakery to pick her up. He'd explained the situation to her, stumbling over his own words as he waited for her reaction, but Emma had only stared at him with a flabbergasted expression in return. Disconcerted, Killian had settled into a flustered silence, save for the occasional word to Melly. But now the little girl lay slumbering on the seat opposite of them, a soft little snore-snort issuing from her lips, and there was nothing to fill the awkward quiet of their ride and serve as a distraction.

"Emma," he finally said, after they had been traveling for quite some time, "I didn't particularly want my hair cut, either. But Ariel would have my hide if I came back with Melly still looking as shaggy as Max. She was so frightened, I didn't know what to do. I-I acted impulsively. But," he sighed, "it will grow back in time."

"What?"

"My hair."

She issued him a strange look. "What if I don't want it to grow back?"

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"It suits you," she said, peering out the carriage window. "Goes much better with that black eye. Makes you look like a pirate."

"Very funny," he grumbled.

She tore her gaze away from the window and flashed him a grin that was dazzling in its brilliance. Killian inhaled raggedly, drinking in the sight with a mixture of hope and longing. Emma shifted against him, and his pulse quickened as their arms brushed against each other. _Gods, you're acting like an adolescent, Jones,_ he berated himself.

"You surprised me, that's all. Lieutenant Jones has never struck me as the impulsive type."

"Wonderful," he sighed. He was boring.

"Look, I-I have something for you," she burst out, changing the subject lightning-quick.

"I don't understand."

Emma stood up, reaching for the shelf above their head, and Killian reached over to steady her against the jostle of the carriage, placing his hand on her waist. "Here it is," she muttered, sliding a lumpy package off the shelf. Killian helped her back into her seat, and she dumped the package into his lap with an expectant expression. "Open it."

Eyeing her quizzically, Killian opened the package carefully and discovered a colorful, striped tin beneath the plain brown wrapping paper.

"You said you had a sweet tooth, remember?" She shrugged. "Consider it a thank you."

"You don't need to thank me for anything."

"Oh, don't be a hypocrite," she huffed.

"Pardon?" he blinked at her.

"If I apologize too much, _you_ are too stubborn to accept a thank you." She shook her finger at him. "And don't deny it. I've been privy to too many state meetings where my parents sing your praises, to fall for that tripe. But I didn't figure you'd easily refuse something sweet, so-" She swallowed. "Consider it a thank you for-for everything."

Killian stared at her, and she gazed back significantly. _Oh._ He wasn't certain whether to chide her for feeling as if she had to thank him for doing what any other gentleman would have done, or to feel relieved that she was willingly acknowledging that night in some fashion.

Emma smiled at him uncertainly and gestured for him to open it. Killian obliged her. "Chocolate dipped almonds?" he said with surprise, removing the lid to the tin with a soft pop. "These are my favorite." Killian looked up at her in confusion. "How did you know?"

She shrugged. "Um, lucky guess, I suppose. And I like them, too, so..."

He passed her the tin of sweets. "Help yourself, love."

"I can't do that!" She tried to shove the tin back at him, but he lifted his hands above his head and laughed at her frustrated expression.

"Are you telling me that you're refusing chocolate?" he teased. "One of the few foods you've managed to keep down lately?" Her resolve wavered. Killian could see it in the subtle shift of her expression from determined to wistful. "We still have another hour or so left to our drive," he reminded her. "You're certain you won't get hungry?" He reached forward and picked two almonds out of the tin. He put them in his mouth and began to chew, making loud moans of delight.

"I hate you," she muttered in defeat.

Killian swallowed his food and chuckled. "Hate all you want, love," he said, reaching over to pluck the tin out of her hands. "But I've the tin now, so you'd best call a truce for the time being."

"All right," she agreed with a show of reluctance, "truce."

The tin was empty by time they returned to the Westensee estate, and, much to their hosts' consternation, neither of them ate much at the evening meal.


End file.
